AUNT  OLIVE 
IN  BOHEMIA 

LESLIE    MOORE 


397A 


HO 


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AUNT    OLIVE 
IN   BOHEMIA 


LESLIE    MOORE 


KNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  I.OS  ANGFLKS 


AUNT  OLIVE  IN 
BOHEMIA 


BY 

LESLIE  MOORE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CLOAK  OF  CONVENTION"  AND 
"THE  NOTCH  IN  THE  STICK" 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1913 
Bt  Geobge  H.  Doeak  Compakt 


TO 
MY  MOTHER 


2131390 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I. 

The  Beginning  of  the  Fairy  Tai 

page 
ss.      .          .11 

II. 

Ancient  History 

.      19 

III. 

The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress 

.      28 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

The  Faun  in  the  Garden    . 

*       .      58 

VII. 

The  Six  Artists  of  the  Courty/ 

lRd    .       .63 

VIII. 

.    71 

IX. 

.        .      8s 

X. 

The  Casa  di   Corleone 

.      93 

XI. 

XII. 

Princess  Pippa  Awakes 

.     118 

XIII. 

XIV 

XV. 

A   Question   of   Colour 

.     161 

XVI. 

The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  i 

\gain        .     168 

XVII. 

The  Duchessa  Enters  a  Kingdom 

.    176 

XVIII. 

Barnabas  Schemes  with  Cupid    . 

.   181 

XIX. 

The  Interference  of  a  Fairy  Goi 

mother    .     188 

XX. 

The  Heart  of  Nature 

.    204 

XXI. 

XXII. 

An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden    . 

.  218 

XXIII. 

Andrew  McAndrew 

.   233 

XXIV. 

The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates 

.   238 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

Michael  Makes   Music 

•  279 

Contents 


CHAPTER 

XXVIII.  The  Peace  of  the  River 

XXIX.  Some  Twisted  Threads 

XXX.  Knots  Untied 

XXXI.  The  Tune  of  Love 

XXXII.  A  Wedding  Day    . 

XXXIII.  A  Gift  from  the  Dead 

XXXIV.  The  Music  of  Two  Courtyards 


PAGE 

284 
287 
292 

299 
304 
308 
313 


AUNT  OLIVE  IN  BOHEMIA 


AUNT  OLIVE  IN 
BOHEMIA 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   BEGINNING  OF   THE   FAIRY   TALE 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  as  the  fairy  tales  have  it, 
there  was  a  certain  country  town.  It  was  a 
sleepy  little  town,  where  few  things  happened.  It 
was  like  a  dog  grown  old  and  lazy  with  basking  in 
the  sun,  undisturbed  by  motor-cars  and  modern 
rush.  An  occasional  event  like  a  fly,  and  as 
small  and  insignificant  as  that  insect,  would  settle 
momentarily  upon  it.  For  an  instant  it  would 
be  roused,  shake  itself,  and  promptly  go  to  sleep 
again. 

The  houses  in  the  town  were  all  alike  —  small, 
detached,  and  built  of  red  brick.  They  were  named 
after  the  shrubs  and  trees  that  grew  in  their  gardens. 
There  was  the  Myrtles,  the  Hawthorns,  the  Laurels, 
the  Yews,  the  Poplars,  and  many  others. 

One  May  morning,  when  the  flowers  on  the 
laburnum  trees  were  hanging  in  a  shower  of  golden 
rain,  and  the  pink  and  white  blossoms  of  the  haw- 
thorn bushes  were  filling  the  air  with  a  sweet  and 

n 


ia  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

sickly  scent,  a  single  cab,  drawn  by  a  horse  as  sleepy 
as  the  town  to  which  it  belonged,  drove  up  the 
small,  clean  street,  and  turned  in  at  the  gate  marked 
the  Poplars. 

Two  small  children  with  satchels  on  their  backs 
paused  to  peep  up  the  drive.  They  saw  two  black 
boxes  being  hoisted  by  the  driver  on  to  the  roof  of 
the  cab.  There  was  nothing,  one  would  think,  of 
vital  interest  in  the  sight,  but  it  proved  more  attrac- 
tive than  the  thought  of  lesson  books  and  school- 
room benches.     They  remained  to  gaze. 

In  a  couple  of  moments  a  woman  came  through 
the  front  door.  She  was  clad  in  a  black  cashmere 
dress  of  ample  folds,  partly  hidden  by  a  black  satin 
jacket,  with  large,  loose  sleeves.  A  wide,  white 
linen  collar  adorned  with  a  small  black  velvet  bow 
surrounded  her  neck ;  a  mushroom-shaped  hat,  also 
black,  was  tied  by  broad  strings  beneath  her  chin. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  large  and  tightly  rolled  um- 
brella, in  the  other  was  a  black  satin  bag  drawn  up 
by  a  cord.  It  bulged  in  a  knobby  fashion.  It  had 
evidently  been  stuffed  to  the  extent  of  its  capacities. 

The  woman  spoke  to  the  driver,  then  got  into  the 
cab.  He  climbed  to  the  box,  flicked  his  whip,  turned 
the  horse's  head,  and  drove  once  again  through  the 
gate. 

The  children  scuttled  to  one  side,  and  the  cab 
drove  up  the  street. 

Its  occupant  sat  upright  within  it,  clutching  tightly 
at  the  umbrella  and  the  black  satin  bag.     Little 


The  Beginning  of  the  Fairy  Tale       13 

thrills  of  happiness  were  running  through  her.  The 
May  wind  blowing  through  the  window  fanned  her 
face,  bringing  with  it  great  puffs  of  scent  from  the 
hawthorn  bushes.  Sunshine  sparkled  on  the  roofs 
of  the  houses,  birds  were  singing  in  the  gardens  past 
which  she  drove.  It  was  a  day  alive  with  gladness, 
warm  with  the  breath  of  spring,  fresh  with  the  sense 
of  youth.  And  the  woman  within  the  cab,  whose 
heart,  in  spite  of  her  sixty  years,  was  as  young  as 
the  heart  of  a  child,  participated  in  the  gladness. 

She  watched  the  people  in  the  streets  walking 
leisurely  in  the  sunshine.  She  saw  the  shops  with 
the  tradesmen  standing  idle  in  the  doorways.  At 
the  fishmonger's  only  there  was  a  little  air  of  bustle, 
where  a  maid  in  a  neat  print  had  run  in  to  buy 
a  couple  of  soles  for  lunch. 

The  woman  pulled  out  her  watch  —  a  huge 
affair  in  solid  gold,  attached  to  a  black  hair 
chain.  For  a  moment  she  glanced  at  it  anxiously, 
then  returned  it  to  its  place  with  a  little  sigh  of 
relief.  The  horse  still  trotted  on  its  slow  un- 
hurried way.  More  shops  were  passed,  then  more 
houses.  Finally  the  cab  drew  up  with  a  little 
jerk. 

The  driver  got  down  and  opened  the  cab  door. 

"  Here  we  are,  ma'am ;  and  twenty  minutes  to 
spare.     I'll  call  a  porter." 

While  the  boxes  were  being  taken  from  the  cab 
Miss  Mason  opened  the  black  satin  bag.  From  it 
she  extracted  a  ten-shilling  piece. 


14  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

The  boxes  were  wheeled  towards  the  platform. 

"  I've  no  change,  ma'am,"  said  the  cabby. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Miss  Mason  hurriedly. 

The  cabby  stared.     "  You're  very  good,  ma'am." 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Miss  Mason  again. 

Ten  shillings  was  a  small  amount  to  give  a  man 
who  had  driven  her  a  mile  towards  happiness.  She 
followed  the  porter  on  to  the  platform. 

"  Victoria,  second  class,"  she  said  to  the  man  at 
the  ticket  office. 

"  Return  or  single,  ma'am  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Single,"  said  Miss  Mason  firmly. 

She  took  the  little  piece  of  cardboard  from  him 
and  thrust  it  up  her  glove.  She  loved  the  feeling 
of  it.     It  was  her  passport  to  freedom. 

She  watched  the  boxes  being  labelled.  They 
were  new  boxes  and  hitherto  guiltless  of  station 
labels.  When  she  had  seen  them  firmly  attached, 
and  had  been  solemnly  assured  by  the  porter  that 
the  paste  was  both  strong  and  adhesive,  she  turned 
her  attention  to  the  bookstall.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments' survey  she  moved  away  hurriedly.  The 
pictures  on  the  covers  of  some  of  the  books  dis- 
tressed her,  especially  one  of  a  young  female  with 
red  hair  and  very  insufficient  orange  attire.  For 
a  moment  Miss  Mason  blushed.  But  she  forgot 
the  objectionable  book  in  looking  along  the  shiny 
rails  in  the  direction  from  which  the  train  must 
arrive. 

The  sudden  ringing  of  a  bell  made  her  jump. 


The  Beginning  of  the  Fairy  Tale      15 

"Train's  signalled,  ma'am,"  said  the  porter. 
"  She'll  be  here  in  five  minutes  now." 

"  You'll  be  sure  and  put  in  my  boxes,"  said  Miss 
Mason. 

"  Sure,  ma'am.  Corner  seat  facing  the  engine, 
did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Y-yes ;  a  seat  somewhere,"  stammered  Miss 
Mason.  The  near  approach  of  the  train  was  mak- 
ing her  feel  nervous. 

"  All  right.  I'll  see  to  it.  Second  class  I  think 
you  said." 

There  was  a  distant  whistle;  next,  the  panting 
as  of  some  great  beast,  and  an  engine  with  its  tail 
of  carriages  steamed  into  sight.  It  drew  up 
slowly  at  the  platform. 

"  Here  y'are,  ma'am.  Carriage  all  to  your- 
self. Boxes  will  be  in  the  front  part  of  the  train. 
Thank  you  kindly,  ma'am.  Anything  I  can  get 
for  you?  Paper  or  anything?  Window  up  or 
down?  Will  put  in  the  boxes  myself.  Good 
morning,  ma'am." 

A  tip  proportionate  to  the  fare  Miss  Mason  had 
paid  the  cabby  was  responsible  for  this  burst  of 
eloquence. 

In  spite  of  the  porter's  assurance  that  he  would 
see  to  the  boxes  himself,  Miss  Mason  stood  with 
her  head  through  the  carriage  window  till  she  had 
seen  them  actually  deposited  in  the  guard's  van. 
Then  she  sat  down  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage. 

The  porter  reappeared. 


1 6  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"They're  in,  ma'am.     You're  off  now." 

There  was  a  gentle  vibration  through  the  train, 
and  the  platform  began  to  recede.  The  one  woman 
left  on  it  —  a  stout  woman  who  had  been  seeing 
her  daughter  off  on  her  way  to  service  —  waved 
a  large  white  pocket-handkerchief.  Its  fluttering 
was  the  last  thing  Miss  Mason  saw  as  the  train  left 
the  station. 

She  heaved  a  little  sigh. 

She  found  she  was  still  clutching  the  large  um- 
brella. She  laid  it  now  upon  the  seat  beside  her. 
She  was  almost  too  excited  to  think  of  the  happi- 
ness before  her.  She  hardly  wanted  to  do  so.  It 
was  almost  too  overpowering.  She  would  realize 
it  by  degrees.  At  the  moment  there  were  a  thou- 
sand trivial  delights  around  her. 

She  examined  the  carriage  in  which  she  was 
seated.  The  number  on  the  door  was  seven 
hundred  and  seventy-seven.  Miss  Mason  had  a 
secret  partiality  for  certain  numbers,  seven  being 
her  favourite.  She  was  seven  years  old  when  she 
had  her  first  silk  frock.  It  was  a  blue  and  white 
check  frock,  and  her  hair  —  Miss  Mason  at  that 
time  wore  it  in  two  plaits  —  had  been  tied  with 
blue  ribbons.  Seventeen  had  been,  up  to  date,  the 
happiest  year  of  her  life.  But  more  of  that  year 
anon.  At  twenty-seven  she  had  been  allowed 
the  entrance  of  Miss  Stanhope's  library.  At 
thirty-seven  she  had  become  the  owner  of  a 
kitten.     At  forty-seven  Miss  Stanhope  had  given 


The  Beginning  of  the  Fairy  Tale      17 

her  the  watch  she  now  wore.  At  fifty-seven  a 
favourite  rose-tree  had  borne  the  most  perfect 
flowers.  Trivial  enough  facts  to  form  landmarks 
in  a  life,  yet  they  formed  landmarks  in  Miss  Ma- 
son's. 

She  again  looked  approvingly  at  the  number. 
From  it  she  turned  to  a  contemplation  of  the 
photographs  which  adorned  the  walls.  They  were 
the  usual  kind  of  photographs  found  in  railway 
carriages  —  seaside  promenades,  ruined  castles, 
lakes  with  mountains  beyond.  Miss  Mason  read 
the  names  below  them  with  interest.  She  looked 
at  the  gas-globe  in  the  roof  of  the  carriage,  with 
its  black  cover  which  could  be  drawn  over  it  if 
the  passengers  found  the  light  troublesome.  She 
looked  at  the  emergency  cord  which  was  to  be 
pulled  down  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  guard 
in  case  of  accident.  She  noted  that  the  penalty 
for  its  improper  use  was  five  pounds.  It  seemed 
to  Miss  Mason  a  large  sum  to  pay  merely  for 
pulling  a  little  piece  of  string.  She  wondered  if 
anyone  had  ever  been  bold  enough  to  pull  it  with- 
out necessity. 

After  gazing  at  it  for  two  minutes  with  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  awe,  she  put  her  arm  through  the 
padded  loop  by  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the 
scenery  past  which  they  were  flying. 

There  were  fields  in  which  sheep  and  cows  were 
solemnly  munching  the  fresh  grass;  there  were 
hedges  covered  with  the   fairy  snow  of  the  haw- 


18  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

thorn  blossoms;  there  were  woods  of  larches,  oaks, 
and  beeches,  and  among  them  the  darker  green  of 
firs ;  there  were  streams  rippling  golden-brown  past 
meadow  banks  and  clumps  of  rushes;  there  were 
children  swinging  on  gates  and  waving  cap  or 
handkerchief  as  the  train  rushed  by.  She  saw 
market  carts  and  occasionally  a  dogcart  on  roads 
running  by  the  railway,  and  now  and  then  a  soli- 
tary cyclist,  all  going  at  a  snail's  pace  so  it  seemed 
compared  with  the  rate  at  which  she  herself  was 
travelling.  They  passed  houses  with  trimly-kept 
gardens  alive  with  flowers;  cottages  with  strips  of 
vegetable  gardens  where  from  lines  attached  to 
posts  stuck  among  the  cabbages  washing  was  hung 
out  to  dry.  The  May  breeze  swung  the  clothing 
to  and  fro,  ballooning  it  momentarily  to  ridiculous 
shapes,  fluttering  red  petticoats,  white  table- 
cloths, and  blue  blouses,  like  the  waving  of  coloured 
flags. 

Again  the  joyous  note  of  youth  and  gladness 
sounded  in  Miss  Mason's  heart.  She  gave  a  queer 
little  gruff  laugh. 

"Wonderful!"  she  thought.  "Like  the  fairy 
tales  I  used  to  read  when  I  was  little.  Now  I'm 
part  of  the  fairy  tale.  Can  hardly  believe  it. 
Yet  it's  true." 


CHAPTER  II 

ANCIENT    HISTORY 

OUTWARDLY  Miss  Mason  was  not  unlike 
certain  pictures  of  the  fairy  godmother  who 
escorted  Cinderella  to  the  ball.  Being  a  fairy 
godmother,  no  doubt  that  old  lady's  heart  was  every 
bit  as  young  as  Miss  Mason's,  so  the  similarity  may 
very  likely  have  extended  still  further. 

Of  the  fairy  godmother's  previous  history  there 
is  no  known  record.  Miss  Mason's  history  was 
the  public  property  of  the  little  town  in  which  she 
lived.  It  is  not  unduly  lengthy.  It  also  cannot  be 
termed  exciting. 

Miss  Mason  became  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  five. 
Her  mother  had  been  a  pretty  Irish  girl,  only 
daughter  of  a  penniless  Irish  gentleman;  and  not 
having  had  enough  of  poverty  in  her  own  home, 
she  gave  her  heart  to  one,  Dick  Mason,  a  struggling 
painter,  who  was  as  ugly  as  he  was  gay  and  light- 
hearted.  In  spite  of  poverty  she  had  seven  years 
of  such  happiness  as  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  women. 
Then  Dick  was  killed  riding  a  friend's  young 
unbroken  mare,  and  a  month  later  his  wife  fol- 
lowed him ;  dying  —  if  such  a  complaint  truly  ex- 
ists —  of  a  broken  heart. 

19 


20  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Their  one  child,  Olive,  was  left  penniless,  and 
with  only  one  relation  in  the  world  —  a  Miss 
Stanhope,  a  wealthy  and  eccentric  cousin  of  her 
father's,  who  was  at  this  time  a  maiden  lady  of 
thirty. 

A  sense  of  duty  as  stern  and  uncompromising 
as  Miss  Stanhope's  own  appearance  induced  her 
to  offer  the  child  a  home.  Duty  also  prompted 
her  to  look  well  after  her  physical  welfare,  and 
educate  her  in  a  style  befitting  a  young  woman 
of  gentle  birth.  Miss  Stanhope's  views  on  educa- 
tion were  decided  and  not  at  all  involved.  Every 
lady,  she  averred,  should  be  able  to  speak  French 
fluently,  make  her  own  underclothes,  and  be 
conversant  with  the  writings  of  the  best  authors. 
Music  —  which  she  disliked  —  was  left  outside  the 
category.  She  provided  the  child  with  a  French 
governess,  who  was  a  beautiful  needlewoman. 
The  introduction  to  the  authors  would  come  later. 

Olive  remained  under  Madame  Dupont's  tuition 
for  twelve  years.  When  she  was  seventeen  she 
was  sent  to  "  finish  her  education "  at  Miss 
Talbot's  select  Academy  for  Young  Ladies  at 
Brighton.  This  year  was  the  happiest  in  Olive's 
life.  Not  only  was  there  a  daily  walk  on  the 
esplanade,  from  whence  she  gazed  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  at  the  marvel  of  the  sea,  but  also 
she  was  permitted  to  take  drawing-lessons.  She 
had  inherited   three  things   from  her  father,  the 


Ancient  History  21 

first  being  his  plainness  of  feature,  the  second  his 
youthful  heart,  and  the  third  his  passion  for 
drawing. 

An  extremely  inefficient  but  well-meaning  young 
man  of  impeachable  character  visited  Miss  Tal- 
bot's Academy  for  Young  Ladies  twice  a  week, 
and  instructed  the  pupils  in  this  art.  Chalk 
drawings  from  casts  were  the  style  in  vogue.  It 
was  considered  an  extremely  advanced  style.  The 
chalk  was  kept  in  small  glass  tubes,  it  was  shaken 
on  to  a  pad,  and  applied  to  the  paper  with  leather 
stumps,  in  the  manner  known  as  stippling.  The 
poverty  of  the  instruction,  the  horribly  inartistic 
results  produced,  were  unrecognized  by  Miss  Ma- 
son. Chalk  representations  of  plaster  pears,  apples, 
and  floreate  designs  were  produced  by  her  at  the 
rate  of  one  a  fortnight,  and  were  laid  carefully 
away  in  a  large  portfolio  with  tissue  paper  between 
to  keep  the  chalk  from  rubbing. 

Among  the  pupils  at  Miss  Talbot's  Academy 
had  been  a  girl  —  one  Peggy  O'Hea.  Her  father 
was  a  portrait  painter  of  some  note.  Miss  Talbot 
had  hesitated  at  introducing  this  girl ;  daughter 
of  a  Bohemian  —  all  artists  were  Bohemian  in 
Miss  Talbot's  eyes  —  into  her  select  establish- 
ment, but  the  fact  that  her  father  was  a  yearly 
exhibitor  at  that  most  respectable  institution  the 
Royal  Academy,  and  that  her  uncle  was  a  Dean, 
induced  Miss  Talbot  to  overlook  Bohemia.     She 


22,  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

kept,  however,  a  strict  guard  over  Miss  O'Hea's 
conversation  with  the  other  pupils,  a  guard  Peggy 
invariably  evaded;  and  curled  up  on  her  bed  in 
her  nightdress,  her  arms  clasped  round  her  knees, 
she  would  hold  forth  in  glowing  terms  regarding 
her  father's  studio  and  the  artists  who  frequented 
it.  She  had  in  her  secret  heart  a  distinct  contempt 
for  the  chalk  drawings ;  but  she  was  a  generous  lit- 
tle soul,  and  refrained  from  putting  her  thoughts 
into  words. 

From  her  glowing  descriptions,  the  word  studio 
came  to  sound  in  Miss  Mason's  ears  with  a  note 
akin  to  magic,  while  no  one  guessed  the  dreams 
of  art  and  artists,  of  the  mad  sweet  land  of 
Bohemia,  cherished  by  the  ugly  girl  who  was 
known  in  the  school  as  "  that  awkward  Olive  Ma- 
son." 

At  the  end  of  the  year  Miss  Mason  returned 
home,  to  find  her  presence  almost  hourly  required 
by  Miss  Stanhope,  who  had  developed  into  what 
is  usually  termed  a  malade  imaginaire.  Her  only 
recreations  were  gardening,  and  later  —  when  at 
the  age  of  twenty-seven  she  was  allowed  free  ac- 
cess to  the  library  —  reading.  In  these  two  occu- 
pations she  was  able  to  forget  the  monotony  of 
the  days. 

Children  who  peeped  through  the  gate  on  sunny 
mornings  saw  a  small  shrunken  woman  with  a 
thin  peevish  face  sitting  on  the  lawn  or  in  the 
veranda,    according    to    the    season,    while    Miss 


Ancient  History  23 

Mason  was  busy  in  the  flower  beds,  her  grey  dress 
tucked  up  over  a  black  and  white  striped  petti- 
coat, goloshes  on  her  feet,  a  large  black  hat  tied 
on  her  head,  and  gauntlet  gloves  covering  her 
hands.  The  progress  of  fashion  being  outside  the 
strictly  limited  circle  of  Miss  Mason's  life,  she  had 
adopted  a  costume  of  her  own  device,  which  cos- 
tume she  found  both  warm  and  comfortable,  and 
it  never  varied. 

The  children  who  peeped  through  the  gate  grew 
to  be  men  and  women;  their  children  peeped  in 
like  fashion,  and  still  the  same  order  of  things 
endured  at  the  house  named  the  Poplars. 

During  these  years  Miss  Mason  made  one 
friend.  It  was  curious,  though  perhaps  not  out  of 
keeping  with  Miss  Mason's  character,  which  was 
now  almost  as  original  as  the  garments  she  wore, 
that  the  friend  should  be  a  child  of  ten  years  old. 
She  had  come  to  live  with  her  parents  at  the  small 
town  in  which  Miss  Stanhope  resided.  The  child's 
paternal  grandmother  had  been  a  friend  of  Miss 
Stanhope's  youth.  That  statement  in  itself  had 
a  flavour  of  respectability  about  it.  Armed  with 
a  letter  of  introduction  from  the  grandmother  — 
Mrs.  Quarly  —  the  parents  ventured  to  call  upon 
Miss  Stanhope.  She  received  them  graciously 
enough,  and  a  week  later  Miss  Mason  was  ordered 
to  return  the  visit. 

It  was  then  that  she  met  little  Sybil  Quarly, 
who   promptly   took   an    unaccountable,    but   very 


24  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

strong,  liking  to  her.  In  a  short  time  Sybil 
learnt  which  were  the  hours  spent  by  Miss  Mason 
in  the  garden,  and  from  that  moment  those  hours 
saw  a  fair-haired  child  in  short  petticoats  busy 
in  the  flower  beds  with  her.  To  an  onlooker  Miss 
Mason's  manner  would  have  appeared  almost 
surly,  but  Sybil,  with  the  infallible  instinct  of 
childhood,  recognized  the  tenderness  beneath  the 
gruff  exterior.     The  two  became  fast  friends. 

For  seven  years  Sybil  helped  Miss  Mason  pull 
up  weeds,  destroy  slugs,  bud  roses,  and  take 
cuttings  of  carnations.  She  called  her  "  Granny," 
and  she  confided  all  her  childish  woes  and  griefs 
to  her.  Her  parents  were  conventional  people, 
also  they  were  somewhat  strict  and  unsympathetic. 
They  did  not  in  the  least  understand  Sybil's  timid 
nature.  Miss  Mason  saw,  to  her  sorrow,  that  the 
child  was  being  driven  to  subterfuge  and  petty  un- 
truth by  an  overharsh  system  of  treatment.  But 
she  was  powerless  to  do  anything.  Mrs.  Quarly 
would  have  resented  the  smallest  interference.  For 
seven  years  Miss  Mason  gave  the  child  all  the  ten- 
derness at  her  disposal.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
Sybil's  parents  left  the  little  town  and  took  her  to 
Pangbourne. 

During  the  next  three  or  four  years  Sybil  and 
Miss  Mason  kept  up  a  fitful  correspondence. 
From  much  that  the  girl  left  unsaid  Miss  Mason 
felt  that  she  was  not  happy.  Had  she  herself  been 
gifted  with  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,  she  might 


Ancient  History  25 

indirectly  have  sought  the  girl's  confidence,  but 
neither  written  nor  spoken  words  came  easily  to 
her.  There  were  times  —  and  those  when  she 
most  longed  for  the  power  of  speech  —  when  she 
felt  herself  possessed  of  a  dumb  dog.  She  wrote 
and  told  Sybil  that  the  roses  were  in  bloom,  that 
she  had  pickled  a  hundred  and  fifty  slugs  in  salt 
and  water  after  one  shower  of  rain,  that  the 
Shirley  poppies  they  had  planted  one  year  were 
spreading  like  weeds  over  the  garden.  She  heard 
from  Sybil  that  she  had  made  a  few  new  friends, 
among  them  one,  Cecily  Mainwaring,  who  lived  in 
London,  and  that  she  stayed  with  her  occa- 
sionally. Her  letters,  however,  gave  mere  facts; 
there  was  no  hint  as  to  her  thoughts,  or  whether 
she  were  happy  in  her  new  surroundings.  And 
Miss  Mason  longed  to  ask  her,  yet  all  the  time  she 
could  write  of  nothing  but  pickled  slugs  and  the 
blight  on  rose-trees.  And  after  four  years  Sybil's 
letters  suddenly  ceased.  Miss  Mason  wrote  three 
times  and  received  no  answer.  Then  she,  too, 
stopped  writing.  And  thus  the  years,  as  far  as 
Miss  Mason  was  concerned,  rolled  on. 

But,  at  last,  one  sunny  morning  when  a  boy 
and  girl  approached  the  gate  they  saw  no  one  in 
the  garden,  and  the  blinds  in  the  house  pulled 
down.  Old  Miss  Stanhope  had  died  quietly  in 
her  sleep  that  morning,  and  after  forty-three  years 
Miss  Mason  had  deserted  the  flower-beds.  She 
was  sitting  in  the  desolate  drawing-room,  unable 


26  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

yet  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  one  really  important 
event  which  had  occurred  in  her  life  since  she  was 
five  years  old. 

Four  days  later  Miss  Stanhope's  will  was  read. 
Miss  Mason  had  been  left  sole  heiress  to  an  in- 
come which  amounted  to  something  like  fifteen 
thousand  a  year.  No  one  but  Miss  Stanhope  her- 
self and  her  trustees  had  had  the  smallest  conception 
of  her  wealth.  The  terms  of  the  will,  which  ap- 
peared in  the  local  papers,  had  the  effect  of  taking 
every  one's  breath  away. 

Miss  Mason  spoke  to  the  lawyer  regarding  it. 

"  Can't  spend  anything  like  that  amount  a 
year,"  she  said  gruffly.  "  Don't  know  how  Miss 
Stanhope  managed  to.  Much  rather  you  gave  me 
one  thousand  and  looked  after  the  rest.  Shan't 
find  it  easy  to  spend  one." 

Mr.  Davis  stared  for  a  moment.  Then  he  sud- 
denly realized  —  and  by  a  marvellous  leap  of  in- 
telligence on  his  part  —  that  Miss  Mason  was  under 
the  impression  that  he  would  yearly  press  fifteen 
thousand  sovereigns  into  her  palm.  The  question 
of  banks  and  cheque-books  had  not  presented  itself 
to  her  mind. 

During  the  next  half-hour  Henry  Davis  found 
himself  explaining  matters  to  Miss  Mason  much 
as  he  would  have  explained  them  to  a  child  of 
twelve.  Miss  Mason  grasped  the  situation  in- 
stantly. 

"  Then   before   you   go  you'd   better   show   me 


Ancient  History  27 

how  to  draw  a  cheque,"  she  said.  "  Think  that 
was  your  expression.  I'm  not  imbecile,  though 
when  a  woman  of  sixty  doesn't  know  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  banks  and  cheque-books  you  might  think 
she  was." 

It  was  after  Mr.  Davis  had  left  that  Miss  Mason 
gradually  began  to  realize  what  Miss  Stanhope's 
death  and  her  newly-acquired  wealth  would  mean. 
She  had  lived  so  long  in  one  groove  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  change  had  never  actually  occurred  to 
her.  At  first  she  had  felt  almost  stunned.  But 
suddenly,  in  a  flash,  she  saw  a  new  life  before 
her.  Every  dream  of  her  seventeenth  year  could 
be  fulfilled.  It  found  expression  in  one  short  sen- 
tence : 

"  Shall  go  to  London  and  take  a  studio." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  LADY   OF  THE  BLUE  DRESS 

MISS  MASON  was  sitting  in  the  lounge  of 
the  Wilton  Hotel.  Mr.  Davis  —  the  law- 
yer—  had  given  her  the  name  of  this  hotel,  telling 
her  that  it  was  both  quiet  and  comfortable. 

A  tiny  cloud  had  arisen  in  Miss  Mason's  mind. 
It  partially  eclipsed  the  sunshine  of  her  morning 
mood.     She  knew  vaguely  what  had  caused  it. 

She  had  changed  her  dress  on  her  arrival,  don- 
ning a  black  satin  gown  made  in  precisely  the  same 
style  as  the  cashmere.  A  lace  collar  took  the  place 
of  the  linen  one.  A  cameo  brooch,  large,  and  set 
in  gold  as  massive  as  her  watch,  superseded  the 
black  bow.  Miss  Mason  never  wore  jewellery  ex- 
cept in  the  evening. 

She  had  dined  excellently  at  a  small  table  in  a 
room  adorned  with  water-colour  drawings.  Be- 
tween the  courses  she  had  found  herself  admiring 
them.  She  was  so  intent  on  them  that  at  first 
she  did  not  notice  the  covert  smiles  which  two 
girls  were  directing  towards  her  table.  When  she 
did,  the  smiles  began  to  make  her  feel  uncom- 
fortable. At  first  she  wondered  if  her  cap  were 
crooked,  or  her  brooch  unpinned,  but  gradually  it 

28 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  29 

dawned  on  her  that  it  was  just  she  herself  who  was 
affording  them  amusement. 

Miss  Mason  had  finished  the  last  morsels  of 
her  gooseberry  tart  hurriedly,  had  swallowed  her 
glass  of  light  wine,  and  gone  out  into  the  lounge. 
She  told  herself  that  she  was  an  old  fool  to  worry 
over  the  little  incident,  but  it  had  caused  a  vague 
anxiety  in  her  mind. 

She  took  up  a  number  of  the  "  Graphic "  and 
began  turning  the  pages.  The  style  of  the  ad- 
vertisements displayed  within  its  covers  had  made 
her  previously  imagine  the  periodical  to  be  ex- 
clusively intended  for  feminine  perusal.  She  had 
been  slightly  alarmed  before  dinner  to  see  a  stout 
elderly  gentleman  studying  it  profoundly.  A  mo- 
mentary idea  took  possession  of  her  as  to  whether 
it  was  not  her  duty  to  go  up  to  him  and  warn 
him  regarding  the  nature  of  some  of  the  contents, 
but  as  she  saw  it  was  the  middle  of  the  book  he 
was  studying,  she  concluded  that  someone  had  al- 
ready given  him  a  delicate  hint  regarding  the  ad- 
vertisement pages.  All  the  same,  she  could  not 
imagine  the  editor  of  the  paper  to  be  a  modest 
man. 

One  or  two  people  had  come  into  the  lounge 
for  coffee  after  dinner,  but  they  had  left  it  again, 
and,  at  the  moment,  it  was  deserted  save  for  Miss 
Mason  and  one  other  woman. 

There  was  something  about  the  woman  that 
attracted   her   attention.     It   was   not  merely   her 


30  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

beauty,  but  something  in  the  graceful  way  in 
which  she  was  sitting  in  her  chair,  and  in  her 
manner  of  speaking  to  the  waiter  who  brought 
her  coffee.  Miss  Mason  found  herself  watching 
her.  She  liked  the  ivory  whiteness  of  her  skin, 
the  vivid  red-brown  of  her  hair,  and  the  expres- 
sion in  her  eyes.  Her  dress,  too,  which  was  a 
curious  deep  blue,  pleased  her  immensely. 

Suddenly  the  woman  looked  up.  She  saw  Miss 
Mason's  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  she  smiled.  There 
was  something  so  frank  and  spontaneous  about 
the  smile  that  Miss  Mason  found  herself  smiling 
too. 

"  We  have  the  place  to  ourselves,"  said  the 
woman.  "  Every  one  else  has  departed  for 
different  theatres.  I  should  have  gone  myself 
if  I  hadn't  an  appointment  with  a  friend  of 
mine." 

"  Never  been  to  a  theatre  in  my  life,"  said 
Miss  Mason.  "  Lack  of  opportunity,  not  preju- 
dice." 

"If  you  really  care  to  have  the  opportunity  it 
is  certain  to  present  itself  sooner  or  later,"  replied 
the  woman  calmly.  "  It's  only  a  question  of  the 
intensity  of  wishing." 

Miss  Mason  leant  a  little  forward. 

"Doesn't  the  opportunity  sometimes  arrive  too 
late?"      ■ 

The  question  was  put  almost  involuntarily. 
It  was  one  she  had  been  asking  herself  for  the 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  31 

last  three-quarters  of  an  hour  —  ever  since  her 
somewhat  hurried  exit  from  the  dining-room;  and 
the  question  did  not  refer  merely  to  the  oppor- 
tunity of  visiting  the  theatre.  The  woman  under- 
stood. 

"  That  raises  rather  a  fine  point  of  question," 
she  replied.  "  Can  it  be  fairly  said  that  one  has 
been  given  the  opportunity  if  it  is  truly  impossible 
to  accept  it,  which  I  imagine  '  too  late '  would  sig- 
nify?" 

Miss  Mason  did  not  reply  at  once.  She  wanted 
to  tell  this  woman  about  the  little  cloud  which  had 
covered  the  brightness  of  her  sun,  the  insiduous 
little  doubt  which  had  crept  into  her  mind.  Yet 
she  hardly  knew  how  to  begin. 

The  woman  waited.  She  was  one  of  those  to 
whom  confidences  are  given.  If  she  had  said  any- 
thing at  that  moment  the  sentence  Miss  Mason 
was  slowly  preparing  in  her  mind  would  never 
have  reached  her  lips.  It  came  suddenly  and 
jerkily,  it  was  spoken,  too,  almost  below  Miss  Ma- 
son's breath. 

"  Isn't  one  ever  too  old  ?  Have  waited  a  long 
time  for  the  chance  of  happiness.  Got  it  now. 
But  perhaps  I  am  too  old."  A  slow  painful  flush 
had  mounted  in  Miss  Mason's  face  with  the 
words. 

The  younger  woman  turned  quickly  towards  her. 

"  Too  old  for  happiness ! "  she  cried,  with  a 
little  laugh.     "Never!     If  happiness  has  come  to 


32  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

you,  welcome  her  with  both  hands;  and  with 
every  kiss  she  gives  you  years  will  roll  away  from 
your  heart.  Happiness  is  like  the  spring,  which 
wakes  the  world  to  brightness  after  a  dreary  win- 
ter." 

Miss  Mason  gave  a  little  choke. 

"  Felt  like  that  myself  in  the  train  this  morning. 
Forgot  I  was  sixty.  Thought  it  was  splendid  to 
be  alive.  Was  going  to  enjoy  myself.  Was  so 
glad  thinking  about  it  thought  everybody  would 
be  glad  too.  Can't  explain  very  well,  but  felt 
quite  young.  Thought  all  the  young  things  in  the 
world  would  let  me  watch  their  happiness,  and 
I'd  be  happy  in  my  own  happiness  and  theirs. 
Didn't  want  to  interfere  with  them,  or  try  to  mix 
myself  up  with  them.  Just  wanted  to  be  a  kind 
of  onlooker.  Never  thought  they'd  stop  to  laugh 
at  me  —  make  quiet  fun  of  me,  I  mean.  Made  me 
me  feel  very  old.  Silly  nonsense,  of  course. 
Oughtn't  to  care.     Am  old." 

The  woman  looked  up  quickly.  She  had  no- 
ticed the  little  scene  in  the  dining-room. 

"  Age  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter," 
she  replied  quietly.  "  There  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  enjoy  yourself  enormously.  The 
dullest  person  I  know  is  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
three,  and  one  of  the  gayest  is  an  aunt  of  mine 
who  is  seventy- five.  Happiness  is  a  gift  of  the 
gods,  and  is  bestowed  by  them  irrespective  of  age." 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  33 

"Think  so?"  said  Miss  Mason. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  Then,  quite  suddenly, 
Miss  Mason  began  to  tell  the  woman  the  story 
of  her  life.  She  told  it  badly.  For  the  last  forty 
years  at  least  Miss  Mason  had  talked  little.  Miss 
Stanhope  had  never  cared  to  encourage  conver- 
sation other  than  her  own.  A  daily  and  minute 
recital  of  her  own  imaginary  ailments  had  sufficed 
her.  That  had  been  a  subject  which  had  never 
palled. 

"  And  the  summary  of  it  all  is,"  ended  Miss 
Mason,  "  that  my  life  has  been  utterly  narrow." 
She  stopped  and  looked  at  the  woman.  There  was 
something  half  humorous,  half  pathetic,  in  the  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  woman  slowly,  "  that  one 
is  too  ready  to  use  the  term  '  narrow '  for  lives 
and  opinions  which  have  not  covered,  as  we  im- 
agine, a  great  deal  of  ground.  Sometimes  I 
think  '  concentrated '  would  be  a  better  word  to 
use  for  them.  I  know  that  people  who  have 
darted  hither  and  thither  from  one  place  to  an- 
other, and  from  one  excitement  to  another,  often 
talk  about  '  living '  and  the  broadness  of  their 
lives.  But  I  fancy  that  if  one  could  go  up  in  a 
kind  of  mental  aeroplane  and  look  down  upon  those 
lives,  one  might  see  that  their  grooves,  though  they 
took  an  intricate  pattern,  were  possibly  narrower 


34  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

than  some  of  those  which  have  gone  along  one 
straight  and  monotonous  course." 

"  Think  so  ? "  said  Miss  Mason  again.  Then 
she  smiled  half -shamefacedly.  "  There's  one  thing 
—  in  spite  of  all  the  monotony,  I've  never 
been  able  to  get  rid  of  my  belief  in  kind  of 
fairy-tale  happenings.  Utterly  ridiculous,  of 
course." 

The  woman  laughed,  a  low  clear  laugh,  which 
pleased  Miss  Mason  enormously. 

"  Now  we're  on  ground  with  which  I'm  far 
more  familiar,"  she  replied.  "  I  was  trying  to  get 
hold  of  words  and  expressions  before  which  were 
rather  outside  my  vocabulary,  and  I  fear  I  sounded 
a  little  stilted  in  consequence.  But  fairy  tales ! 
Why  life  is  a  fairy  tale.  Bad  fairies  and  wicked 
magicians  get  mixed  up  in  it  of  course,  or  it 
wouldn't  be  one,  but  there  are  good  fairies  and  all 
kinds  of  unexpected  and  delicious  happenings  right 
through  it  in  spite  of  them.  There's  often,  too,  a 
long  journey  through  a  wood.  You've  been 
through  yours.  What  do  you  hope  to  find  on  this 
side?" 

"  A  studio,"  said  Miss  Mason  promptly.  This 
woman  was  making  it  extraordinarily  easy  for 
her  to  tell  her  fairy  tale.  "  Have  wanted  one 
ever  since  I  was  seventeen,  and  I  think  almost 
before  that.  Perhaps  because  my  father  was  an 
artist." 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  35 

"  And  now  you'll  take  one  ?  " 

"  Have  come  up  to  look  for  one,"  said  Miss 
Mason!  "  Am  going  to  look  at  pictures  too. 
There's  the  National  Gallery,  the  Tate  Gallery,  and 
the  Academy.  Used  to  read  about  them.  Later 
I  shall  go  abroad.  Thought  I'd  better  get  used 
to  going  about  in  England  first.  Have  read  a  lot 
about  pictures.  Used  to  take  in  a  magazine  called 
'  The  Studio.'  Saw  it  advertised  once  and  sent  for 
it.  Miss  Stanhope  used  to  make  me  a  small  allow- 
ance. She  was  kind  really,  though  didn't  always 
understand." 

"  The  kindest  people  don't  always  understand," 
said  the  younger  woman  quickly..  "  Are  you  going 
to  take  an  unfurnished  studio?  and  will  you  have 
some  of  the  furniture  sent  up  from  your  old 
home?" 

There  is  a  curious  luxury  in  speaking  of  the 
details  of  a  cherished  scheme,  and  especially  to 
one  who  has  never  before  found  a  sympathetic 
audience.  This  the  woman  knew  when  she  put  the 
question. 

Miss  Mason  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  Wouldn't  ask  that  if  you'd  seen  the  furniture. 
Was  so  used  to  it  it  was  a  wonder  I  still  went 
on  thinking  it  hideous.  I  think  it  was  after  I'd 
been  away  from  it  for  a  year  and  came  back  to 
it  that  I  knew  how  terrible  it  was.  After  that 
it   remained  terrible.     It  will  all   be  sold.     Have 


36  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

arranged  for  that.  Couldn't  stay  with  it  any  longer 
than  was  necessary.  Don't  care  what  becomes  of 
it  now." 

Miss  Mason  was  feeling  so  light-hearted  again 
she  was  almost  reckless. 

"  Then  you'll  buy  new  things  ? "  asked  the 
woman. 

"  Yes.  Soft  colours  —  blues  and  greens.  Love 
blue.  Your  dress  is  lovely."  The  words  were 
jerky  but  genuine. 

"  It's  my  favourite  colour,"  said  the  woman. 

Miss  Mason  looked  in  the  direction  of  a  mirror 
near  her.  She  could  see  both  their  figures  re- 
flected in  it.  Again  a  little  wistful  look  crept  into 
her  eyes. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  that  it  was  my 
dress  those  two  girls  were  laughing  at.  Perhaps 
it  is  queer.  Never  thought  of  that  before. 
Couldn't  change  now,  any  more  than  I  could  change 
my  skin." 

She  stopped,  then  looked  directly  at  the  woman. 

"  I  suppose  people  will  always  laugh  at  me  ? " 
she  queried.  "  I  suppose  those  girls  were  right  to 
laugh.     I  am  queer." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  the  woman 
in  the  blue  dress  spoke  deliberately. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question  which  may 
sound  rather  conceited,"  she  said.  "  Which  would 
you  value  most  —  my  opinion  or  the  opinion  of 
those  two  girls?  " 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  37 

"  Yours,"  said  Miss  Mason  promptly. 

"  Then  I  am  going  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I 
think,  and  you  must  forgive  me  if  what  I  say 
sounds  impertinent.  I  don't  think  you  are  the 
least  queer.  I  think  you  are  quaint  and  original. 
Any  artist  would  infinitely  prefer  your  method  of 
dressing  than  the  method  chosen  by  the  older 
women  of  the  present  day.  I  think  it  quite  possi- 
ble that  you  will  find  a  few  people  will  laugh  at 
you,  for,  as  I've  already  said,  in  this  fairy-tale 
world  there  are  bad  fairies,  and,  worse  still,  stupid 
ones.  But  they  don't  count,  because  they  aren't 
worth  consideration,  at  least  not  as  regards  their 
opinion  of  our  actions."  She  spoke  the  words 
slowly  and  simply,  almost  as  she  would  have  spoken 
them  to  a  child. 

Again  there  was  a  silence. 

"  Where  will  you  take  your  studio  ?  "  asked  the 
woman  suddenly. 

"  Chelsea,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Whistler  lived 
there." 

"  Conclusive,"  laughed  the  woman. 

"  Want  it  to  be  a  nice  studio,"  said  Miss  Ma- 
son. "  Rent  won't  matter.  Miss  Stanhope  left  me 
a  lot  of  money.     Can't  spend  it  all." 

"  Now  the  fairy  tale  progresses,"  said  the  woman 
joyfully.  "  Plenty  of  money  and  fairy-tale  ideas 
are  the  happiest  of  combinations." 

Miss  Mason  laughed. 


38  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Glad  I  met  you,"  she  said.  "  Feel  like  I  did 
when  I  came  up  in  the  train  this  morning." 

"  Our  meeting  was  evidently  part  of  the  fairy 
tale,"  said  the  woman.  "  Now  I  must  go  and  get 
my  cloak.     It's  five  minutes  to  nine." 

She  went  towards  the  stairs.  Miss  Mason 
watched  her  ascending  them. 

A  moment  after  she  had  left,  a  man  came  into 
the  lounge.  He  was  wearing  a  thin  dark  grey 
overcoat,  and  held  a  flat  black  hat  in  one  hand. 
Miss  Mason  had  never  before  seen  an  opera  hat. 
She  looked  at  it  with  interest.  From  it  she  looked 
at  the  man.  He  was  tall  and  distinctly  aristocratic- 
looking.  Miss  Mason  noticed  that  he  wore  a  small 
moustache  and  imperial. 

She  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs.  The  woman  in 
the  blue  dress  was  coming  down  again.  She  had 
a  black  satin  cloak  round  her. 

"Christopher,  darling,"  she  cried,  "is  that  you? 
I'm  beautifully  punctual." 

He  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her  hand.  There 
was  something  charming  in  the  courtliness  of  his 
manner.  Miss  Mason,  who  had  been  momentarily 
shocked  by  the  "  darling,"  felt  it  somehow  ex- 
plained by  the  subsequent  action. 

"  One  moment,  and  I'll  come,"  said  the  woman. 

She  crossed  to  Miss  Mason.  The  man  waited 
for  her. 

"  I  shan't  be  home  till  midnight,"  she  said,  "  and 
I'm  leaving  for  Italy  at  an  unearthly  hour  to-mor- 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  39 

row  morning.  But  I  am  sure  one  day  we  shall 
meet  again.     Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Hope  you'll 
enjoy  yourself."  She  longed  to  say  something 
more,  but  the  words  failed  her. 

She  watched  her  rejoin  the  man  and  leave  the 
lounge.  It  seemed  extraordinarily  empty  after  her 
departure. 

"  Don't  suppose  she'll  ever  lack  friends,"  said 
Miss  Mason  to  herself,  "but  if  ever  she  did  need 
one "  She  left  the  rest  of  the  sentence  un- 
spoken in  her  mind,  and  finding  the  place  a  little 
lonely  went  up  to  her  own  room. 

It  was  not  till  she  was  in  bed  that  she  realized 
that  she  had  no  idea  of  the  woman's  name.  It  also 
never  dawned  on  her  to  ask  the  hotel  management 
for  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  COURTYARD 

DAN  OLDFIELD  was  standing  in  front  of  an 
easel  on  which  was  a  minute  canvas.  The 
scene  depicted  thereon  was  a  pastoral  of  Mesonnier- 
like  detail.  At  the  moment  Dan  was  engaged  in 
painting  lilac  flowers  on  a  green  and  white  dress. 
The  original  dress  was  on  a  lay  figure  before  him. 

The  studio  in  which  he  was  working  was  one  of 
seven  enclosed  in  a  courtyard.  Two  of  the  studios 
had  small  gardens  in  front.  Standing  in  one  of 
the  gardens  it  was  easier  to  imagine  oneself  in  the 
depths  of  the  country  than  in  the  midst  of  London. 
The  roll  of  the  traffic  in  the  King's  Road  was  just 
sufficiently  remote  to  sound  not  unlike  the  roar  of 
the  sea. 

There  were  lilac  bushes  and  laburnums  in  the 
gardens.  A  thrush  sang  in  one  of  the  laburnum 
trees  in  the  spring,  and  a  robin  in  the  winter.  The 
robin  was  very  tame.  It  had  established  a  visiting 
acquaintance  with  all  seven  studios.  There  was  a 
certain  amount  of  jealousy  among  the  inhabitants 
when  occasionally  for  a  week  at  a  time,  it  would 
show  a  marked  preference  for  one  studio.  On  the 
whole  its  affections  were  most  deeply  centred  on 

40 


The  Courtyard  41 

studio  number  seven.  At  the  moment  this  studio 
was  empty. 

Dan  painted  in  the  lilac  flowers  carefully,  using 
extremely  small  brushes.  Every  now  and  then  he 
stepped  back  from  his  work  to  judge  of  the  effect. 
Any  onlooker  uneducated  in  the  mysteries  of  art 
would  have  imagined  the  use  of  a  magnifying  glass 
a  more  desirable  method  to  study  the  effect. 
Dan  was  evidently  not  of  that  opinion.  He  had 
just  finished  painting  in  the  yellow  heart  of  the 
thirteenth  flower  when  the  sound  of  the  wheels  of 
some  large  vehicle  entering  the  courtyard  struck 
upon  his  ears. 

"  What's  that ! "  he  said  carelessly,  and  he 
crossed  to  the  window. 

A  large  pantechnicon  had  drawn  up  opposite 
studio  number  seven.  Men  had  already  run  round 
to  open  the  doors  at  the  back  of  the  van.  It  was 
full  of  furniture. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  ejaculated  Dan. 

He  put  his  palette  and  brushes  down  on  a  table, 
and  standing  on  a  chair  poked  his  head  through  the 
upper  part  of  the  window.  A  large  roll  of  blue 
drugget  and  a  dark  oak  easel  were  being  carried  up 
the  small  garden  path.  Two  men  were  hauling  a 
Chesterfield  sofa  from  the  van. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Dan  again. 

He  withdrew  his  head  from  the  window,  de- 
scended from  the  chair,  and  came  out  of  his  studio 
into  the  courtyard.     The  sunshine,  which  was  bril- 


42  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

liant,  shone  on  his  untidy  red  hair.  He  looked 
like  a  slightly  worried  giant. 

The  Chesterfield  was  reposing  momentarily  on 
the  stones  of  the  courtyard.  The  men  were  wiping 
their  foreheads.     The  day  was  warm. 

"  Studio  let  ?  "  demanded  Dan. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply.  "  Bringing  in  the 
furniture,  sir.     Nice  day,  but  warm." 

"  Who's  taken  the  studio  ?  "  demanded  Dan. 

"  Can't  remember  the  lady's  name  at  the  mo- 
ment, sir.  Elderly  lady  with  grey  hair.  Saw  her 
when " 

"  An  old  lady ! "  interrupted  Dan.  His  voice 
held  at  least  three  notes  of  disgust. 

"Yes,  sir,  she " 

But  Dan  had  vanished  up  the  garden  path  of 
studio  number  six,  had  banged  on  the  door,  and  en- 
tered without  waiting  for  permission. 

A  man  in  his  shirtsleeves  was  standing  before 
an  easel.  A  nude  model  was  half  sitting,  half 
lying,  on  the  platform. 

"  I  say,  Barnabas,"  he  began.  Then  he  saw  the 
model.     "  Morning,   Tilly.     Sorry  I   interrupted." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  the  man  addressed, 
good-humouredly.  "  I  thought  it  was  your  fairy 
footfall  before  I  heard  the  knock.  What's  the 
trouble?  Have  you  stuck  the  Messonnier  painting 
on  an  envelope  in  mistake  for  a  postage  stamp  and 
put  it  in  the  pillar-box?    You'd  better  take  a  rest 


The  Courtyard  43 

now,  Tilly,  while  Mr.  Oldfield  disburdens  his 
mind." 

The  girl  stretched  herself  in  a  lazy  panther-like 
fashion,  and  taking  a  faded  purple  dressing-gown 
from  the  model  stand  flung  it  round  herself. 

"  Studio  number  seven's  let,"  said  Dan. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  it  be?"  said  Barnabas  im- 
perturbably.  "  It's  been  vacant  six  months.  It's 
a  pleasant  studio;  large,  well-ventilated,  drains  in 
perfect  condition,  an  ideal " 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  Barnabas,"  said  Dan.  "  It's  let 
to  an  old  woman." 

"What?" 

"  An  old  woman,"  repeated  Dan  bitterly. 

For  a  moment  Barnabas  looked  utterly  taken 
aback.     Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Bad  news  indeed,  my  child.  For  the  last  five 
years  at  least  we've  been  a  pleasant  little  coterie 
of  seven  undeniable  geniuses  all  of  the  male  sex. 
Then  Ash  ton  left  us.  Why  on  earth  didn't  your 
friend  Shottover  take  the  place?  I  thought  you 
said  he  was  going  to." 

"  So  I  thought,"  replied  Dan  gloomily.  "  He's 
such  a  vacillating  ass.  I  told  him  he'd  lose  it  if 
he  didn't  hurry  and  make  up  his  mind.  Now  he 
has  lost  it,  and  we've  an  old  woman  coming  to 
plant  herself  among  us.  It  isn't  that  I  dislike 
women " 

Barnabas  grinned  suddenly. 


44  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"What's   funny?"  asked   Dan. 

"  Your   unnecessary   statement,   my   child." 

"  Well,  it's  true." 

"  I  know.  There  was  so  remarkably  little  need 
to  state  the  fact." 

"But,"  went  on  Dan  firmly,  "I  don't  like  old 
women." 

"  There  are  exceptions,"  said  Barnabas  solemnly. 
"  My  paternal  grandmother " 

"  Bother  your  paternal  grandmother.  I  tell  you 
the  studio's  let  to  an  old  woman,  and  they're  taking 
in  the  furniture  now." 

Barnabas  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Let's  have  a  look  at  it,"  he  said.  "  I  wonder 
what  her  taste  in  studio  furniture  is  like." 

He  went  out  into  his  little  garden,  Dan  following 
him.  A  dark  oak  bookcase  and  an  oak  chest  were 
being  removed  from  the  van. 

"  By  Jove,  the  ancient  lady  has  got  taste ! "  said 
Barnabas.  "  Genuine  old  stuff,  or  my  name's  not 
John  Kirby." 

The  two  stood  together  in  the  garden  on  the 
little  gravel  path,  looking  across  a  bed  of  forget- 
me-nots  and  a  small  fence  at  the  working  men. 

Barnabas  —  his  real  name  was  John  Kirby,  but 
he  had  first  been  nicknamed  the  Comforter,  and 
finally  Barnabas,  the  Son  of  Consolation,  by  his 
fellow-artists  —  was  a  tall  man  who  would  have 
looked  even  taller  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  huge 
frame  of  the  man  beside  him. 


The  Courtyard  45 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  that  bit  of  furniture  myself," 
said  Barnabas,  as  a  beautiful  corner  cupboard  was 
unearthed  from  the  van.  "Hullo!  what's  this? 
1  The  Winged  Victory,'  by  Jingo !  and  a  pedestal. 
Here's  art  and  no  mistake.  Pictures,  too.  Here, 
you,"  he  called  to  the  two  men  who  were  carrying 
them,  "  allow  us  momentarily  to  cast  our  eyes  upon 
those  treasures.  Ye  gods  and  little  fishes!  a  Nich- 
olson, a  Pryde,  two  Sickerts,  and  a  genuine  Barto- 
lozzi  print.  The  ancient  lady  evidently  possesses 
not  only  taste  but  cash — -.hard  coin  of  the  realm, 
my  child." 

"  Those  old  fogies  always  have  tons  of  money," 
grunted  Dan. 

Three  large  wooden  packing-cases  were  now  car- 
ried towards  the  studio. 

"  Be  careful  with  the  unpacking  of  those,"  said 
the  man  who  was  evidently  the  chief  in  command. 
"  Old  blue  Worcester  dinner  service,  sir,"  he  ex- 
plained in  an  aside  to  the  two  who  were  looking 
over  the  fence. 

Dan  groaned. 

"  Pure  swank  on  her  part,"  said  Barnabas  sor- 
rowfully. "  What  have  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt  in 
common  with  the  earthenware  and  bread  and  cheese 
of  Bohemia.  Why  didn't  she  take  up  her  abode 
in  the   fashionable  quarters  of   Kensington." 

"  Turn  a  Park  Lane  house  into  a  studio,"  said 
Dan. 

"  Have  you  any  idea,"  asked  Barnabas,  address- 


46  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

ing  himself  to  the  man  in  command,  "  when  the 
fortunate  possessor  of  these  rare  and  valuable  ar- 
ticles intends  to  take  up  her  residence  in  this  charm- 
ing domicile?  —  in  other  words,  when  does  the 
elderly  lady  come  in  ?  " 

"  To-night,  sir,  about  seven  o'clock,  I  think. 
Our  orders  are  to  have  everything  ready  before  six, 
even  if  we  had  to  put  on  extra  hands.  But  it  will 
be  ready  easily,  bless  you,  even  to  the  making  of 
the  beds  and  final  sweeping,  which  my  wife's  seeing 
to.  There's  not  above  four  or  five  hours'  work 
here.  There  ain't  none  of  the  little  whatnots  and 
ornaments  to  unpack  what  ladies  usually  carries 
about." 

Barnabas  looked  at  Dan. 

"  To-night !  "  he  said  meaningly.  "  And  you 
have  one  of  your  famous  parties  on !  To-night  the 
old  lady  will  sleep  —  if  she  can  —  lulled  by  the 
sound  of  hilarious  laughter,  the  twanging  of 
banjos,  ribald  songs,  and  all  the  other  pleasant  little 
noises  which  are  an  invariable  accompaniment  to 
one  of  your  mad  entertainments.  Shall  you  be 
busy  to-morrow  ?  "  he  asked  the  man. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  we're  moving  a  family  into  Elm  Park 
Gardens." 

Barnabas  shook  his  head.  "  That's  unfortu- 
nate. You'll  doubtless  be  required  here.  The  old 
lady  will  be  making  a  hasty  exit.  The  old  blue 
Worcester  dinner  service  will  be  repacked  less  care- 
fully —  there  won't  be  time  for  care  —  the  corner 


The  Courtyard  47 

cupboard  and  the  Chesterfield  sofa,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  Winged " 

"  Ass !  "  said  Dan.  "  What  is  the  use  of  talking 
rot  about  it.  We  shall  have  complaints  from  the 
owner  of  the  studios  about  the  noise  we  make.  I 
know  what  it  will  be." 

"  A  new  set  of  regulations  a  la  German,"  said 
Barnabas.  "  No  pianos  before  seven  or  after  ten. 
Lights  out  at  eleven.  We  shall  become  a  set  of 
model  young  men  who  will  work  quietly  all  the 
week  and  go  to  church  on  Sundays.  Hullo,  here's 
Jasper.     Let's  tell  him  the  pleasing  tidings." 

The  door  of  another  studio  had  opened,  and  a 
slight,  dark  man  with  a  somewhat  ascetic  and  rather 
discontented-looking  face  came  out  in  the  sunshine. 

".What's  going  on  here?  "  he  demanded. 

"  We're  studying  the  preface  to  a  little  book 
called  '  From  Wildness  to  Decorum,'  "  answered 
Barnabas  gravely.  "  The  first  chapter  will  no 
doubt  be  named  '  Hints  from  the  Ancients  to 
Young  Men  —  on  Deportment.'  " 

"  Do  you  ever  talk  sense  ?  "  asked  Jasper.  "  I 
suppose  someone  has  taken  this  studio." 

Dan  imparted  the  information  they  had  lately 
received. 

"  So  there's  no  more  fun  for  us  poor  young  fel- 
lows, and  we'll  grow  like  the  good  artists  grow," 
chanted  Barnabas. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  imagine  that  be- 
cause this  lady  has  taken  the  studio  that  she  should 


48  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

necessarily  object  to  any  of  our  amusements,"  said 
Jasper  seriously.  "  Besides,  I  hardly  think  it  is 
kind " 

Barnabas  gave  a  little  chuckle  of  laughter. 

"  Dear  child !  "  he  said  patting  Jasper  gently  on 
the  shoulder.  "  He's  learnt  the  first  chapter  of 
the  little  book  by  heart  while  we've  been  grizzling 
in  the  garden.  Entirely  Dan's  fault,  my  child. 
He  interrupted  a  busy  morning,  thereby  causing  me 
to  view  the  whole  world,  and  old  ladies  in  particu- 
lar, in  a  pessimistic  spirit.  Let  us  be  kind.  We 
will  invite  the  old  dame  to  your  party,  Dan.  We'll 
sing  songs  suited  to  the  ears  of  age.  We'll  hire 
a  harmonium  for  the  evening,  and " 

"  I  wish  you  would  occasionally  be  serious,"  in- 
terrupted Jasper  half  impatiently.  "  Of  course  we 
should  have  preferred  a  man  in  the  studio,  but  I 
don't  see  why  you  and  Dan  need  be  so  certain  that 
a  woman's  advent  will  interfere  with  us.  Do  the 
others  know  ?  " 

"  Lord,  no,  my  child,"  said  Barnabas.  "  It 
would  take  an  earthquake  to  induce  the  other  three 
to  put  nose  beyond  door  or  eye  to  window  before 
one  o'clock.  If  Michael  isn't  at  work  on  an  illus- 
tration of  a  starved  child,  he'll  be  writing  an  essay 
on  '  Humour —  Some  more  of  its  more  cynical  as- 
pects.' Alan  will  be  painting  a  burning  cross  in 
the  centre  of  a  crimson  rose,  and  would  regard  the 
smallest  interruption  as  the  highest  form  of  sacri- 
lege, and  Paul  will  be  doing  such  genuine  good 


The  Courtyard  49 

work  that  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  interrupt  him." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Jasper 
spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  been  giving  a  sub- 
ject close  consideration. 

"  You  know,  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  let  the 
fact  that  a  woman  has  taken  the  studio  arouse 
feelings  of  animosity  in  us  towards  her.  She  is 
bound  to  have  a  studio  somewhere  if  she  wants  to 
paint,  and  why  not  among  us?  I  think  we  should 
do  our  best  to  make  her  welcome." 

Dan  swore  softly  beneath  his  breath.  Jasper 
had  moments  of  priggishness  that  were  almost  be- 
yond the  patience  of  man  to  endure.  Except  when 
these  moods  were  on  him  he  was  not  such  a  bad 
sort  of  fellow. 

Barnabas  choked  down  a  little  laughter  and  a 
big  bit  of  annoyance  at  a  gulp. 

"  Right  oh !  my  child.  And  now  I  must  return 
to  my  studio,  or  Tilly  will  have  smoked  all  my 
cigarettes.  I  offered  her  one  once,  and  henceforth 
she  has  looked  upon  them  all  as  her  own  especial 
property.  Worst  of  acting  in  a  moment  of  ill-con- 
sidered generosity.  Dan,  don't  be  boorish  any 
longer.  I'll  leave  Jasper  to  read  you  a  further 
homily  on  the  whole  duty  of  man  towards  ancient 
ladies.  So  long,  my  children.  Don't  trample 
down  my  forget-me-nots  in  your  ardour." 

He  gave  them  a  cheerful  nod  and  vanished 
within  the  studio. 

His   departure   left   a   curious   blank.     It    gave 


50  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

something  the  impression  felt  when  the  sun  retires 
behind  a  cloud,  or  the  sensation  we  experience  the 
first  morning  of  work  following  a  month's  holiday. 
People  almost  invariably  felt  this  sensation  when 
Barnabas  left  them. 

The  two  other  men  still  stood  a  few  moments 
longer  watching  the  unpacking  of  the  van.  Dan, 
however,  had  ceased  to  find  the  same  interest  in 
the  proceedings.  He  could  no  longer  grumble  with 
a  free  mind.  In  the  presence  of  Jasper  his  utter- 
ances would  have  taken  on  an  air  of  seriousness  he 
was  far  from  fully  intending.  Besides,  his  prox- 
imity in  this  mood  annoyed  him.  The  minute  lilac 
flowers,  too,  required  his  attention. 

Jasper  remembered  that  he  also  had  left  a  model 
within  his  studio.  Besides,  his  latest  resolution  — 
among  others  —  was  not  to  waste  mornings  un- 
necessarily. 

The  two  separated.  The  work  of  removing  the 
furniture  from  the  van  continued. 

A  thrush,  unheeding  the  presence  of  the  men, 
settled  in  the  laburnum  tree  and  began  to  sing. 
Perhaps  it  was  an  unconscious  song  of  welcome 
to  the  woman  who  would  that  evening  enter  the 
castle  of  her  dreams. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  BOHEMIA 

IT  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and 
through  one  of  the  windows  of  the  newly-fur- 
nished studio  a  shaft  of  sunlight  had  found  its  way. 
It  formed  a  patch  of  light  on  the  blue  drugget  on 
the  floor,  and  caught  the  corner  of  an  oak  dresser 
on  which  the  old  Worcester  dinner  service  was  ar- 
ranged. 

There  were  two  figures  in  the  studio,  though  to 
the  eyes  of  mortals  the  place  would  have  seemed 
empty.  The  one  was  in  a  robe  of  white  and  gold, 
the  other  in  a  dress  of  dull  grey.  The  white-robed 
figure  was  sitting  in  a  large  chair  near  an  oak  chest, 
on  which  was  a  Sevres  bowl.  She  looked  as  if  she 
had  come  to  stay.  There  was  an  irresolute  appear- 
ance about  the  grey-clad  figure. 

"  I  can't  stay  in  this  studio  with  you  here,"  she 
said. 

"  I  know,"  said  the  white-robed  figure. 

"  It  is  my  prerogative  to  be  here,"  went  on  the 
grey-clad  figure.     "  You  don't  belong  to  age." 

The  white-robed  figure  smiled. 

"  You  sit  there,"  said  the  grey-clad  figure,  "  as 
if  the  place  belonged  to  you." 

5i 


52  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  It  will,"  said  the  one  in  white. 

"  You  will  not  be  able  to  stay,"  said  the  grey- 
clad  figure  warningly. 

"  I  shall  stay  till  I  am  asked  to  leave.  Then  you 
can  take  my  place." 

"  That  will  be  soon,"  said  the  grey-clad  figure. 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  the  figure  in  white. 

"  I  shall  come  back  again,"  said  the  grey-clad 
figure,  but  the  words  lacked  confidence. 

"  When  you  are  asked,"  said  the  figure  in  white. 

"  I  am  going  now,"  said  the  grey-clad  figure. 
"  If  I  stay  here  any  longer  with  you  I  shall  lose 
all  my  personality." 

And  Doubt  flew  through  the  window.  She 
hated  passing  through  the  shaft  of  sunlight,  but 
it  was  the  only  way  out.  But  Joy  remained  in  the 
studio. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  seven.  Its 
note  was  like  the  bell  of  a  miniature  cathedral. 
There  was  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  courtyard. 
They  stopped. 

The  door  opened  and  a  woman  in  a  black  dress 
and  wide  mushroom  hat  crossed  the  threshold. 
She  saw  the  shaft  of  sunlight,  the  oak  dresser  with 
its  array  of  blue  plates,  and  she  looked  towards  the 
great  chair  by  the  chest.  Being  a  mortal  she  did 
not  see  the  figure  seated  in  it. 

But  Joy  came  forward  to  welcome  her. 

An  hour  later  Miss  Mason  was  eating  a  supper 


In  Bohemia  53 

of  cold  chicken,  salad,  bread  and  butter,  tinned 
peaches  and  cream.  She  was  being  waited  on  by 
a  little  flower-faced  girl  in  a  blue  print  dress  and 
a  quaint  cap  and  apron.  The  little  girl's  name  was 
Sally. 

She  had  been  found  through  an  advertisement, 
after  Miss  Mason  had  visited  registry  offices  in- 
numerable, and  interviewed  cooks  fat,  cooks 
scraggy,  cooks  superior,  cooks  untidy,  cooks  confi- 
dent, and  cooks  deprecating,  none  of  whom  had 
pleased  her.  The  owners  of  the  registry  offices 
had  considered  Miss  Mason  an  impossible  person. 

Sally's  sole  references  had  been  that  of  her 
mother,  the  Sunday-school  teacher,  and  her  own 
fresh  little  face.  Miss  Mason  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her  on  the  spot. 

She  arrived  with  a  parcel  under  her  arm  five 
minutes  after  Miss  Mason  had  entered  the  studio. 
Her  box  was  to  come  the  next  morning  by  the 
carrier. 

Miss  Mason  finished  her  supper  and  Sally  cleared 
the  table.  She  then  vanished  into  the  minute 
kitchen,  out  of  which  was  an  equally  minute  bed- 
room. 

Miss  Mason  got  up  from  her  chair  and  went 
slowly  round  the  studio.  She  had  spent  three 
weeks  of  careful  shopping.  It  was  astonishing 
how  quickly  she  had  found  herself  going  from 
place  to  place,  aided  by  friendly  policemen.  Her 
purchases  had  been  sent  to  a  furniture  agent  who 


54  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

was  responsible  for  their  arrangement  in  the  stu- 
dio. 

It  was  all  exactly  as  she  had  imagined  it  would 
be.  There  were  the  brown  walls  with  the  few  pic- 
tures, the  blue  drugget  on  the  floor,  and  the  old 
Persian  rugs.  There  was  the  "  Winged  Victory  " 
on  its  straight  pedestal  in  one  corner.  There  was 
the  dresser  against  one  wall,  with  the  blue  dinner 
service  on  its  shelves.  There  was  the  bookcase 
filled  with  books,  the  only  reminder  of  her  old  life. 
There  was  the  Chesterfield  sofa  standing  at  right 
angles  to  the  fire-place.  There  was  the  corner  cup- 
board, and  a  small  cupboard  with  glass  doors,  in 
which  were  a  few  bits  of  rare  old  china.  There 
was  the  easel.  There  were  a  few  new  canvases 
against  the  wall.  There  was  a  box  full  of  oil 
paints.  There  were  charcoal  sticks  in  another  box 
—  Miss  Mason  had  found  that  chalk  in  bottles  was 
not  the  correct  thing  nowadays.  There  was  a 
whole  ream  of  white  Michelet  paper.  There  was 
a  sheaf  of  brushes  in  a  green  earthenware  jar. 
There  was  a  large  mahogany  palette  hanging  on  a 
nail.     It  shone  smooth  and  polished  like  a  mirror. 

When  she  had  been  the  round  of  the  studio  she 
sat  down  in  the  big  chair  and  looked  at  the  empty 
Sevres  bowl. 

"  Must  buy  pink  roses  for  that  to-morrow,"  she 
said. 

She  leant  back  in  the  chair.  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  were  relaxed  in  a  little  tender  smile.     Her 


In  Bohemia  55 

eyes  were  shining.  She  heard  the  voices  of  men 
crossing  the  courtyard.  They  were  laughing. 
She  laughed  a  little  herself.  And  over  and  over 
again  in  her  heart  the  words  of  the  lady  in  the 
blue  dress  were  sounding: 

"  If  happiness  comes  to  you  welcome  her  with 
both  hands;  and  with  every  kiss  she  gives  you 
years  will  roll  away  from  your  heart.  Happiness 
is  like  the  spring,  which  wakes  the  world  to  bright- 
ness after  a  dreary  winter." 

Sally  came  back  into  the  studio. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you, 
ma'am?  " 

"No,  child.  You'd  better  get  to  bed.  Boiled 
eggs  for  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  ma'am.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night."  There  was  a  moment's  pause. 
Sally  had  reached  the  door. 

"  Got  a  young  man  ?  "  Miss  Mason's  voice  was 
so  gruff  that  Sally's  heart  beat  uncomfortably. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  but " 

"  Does  he  live  in  London  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am."     Sally  was  trembling  a  little. 

"  Better  write  to-morrow  and  ask  him  to  come 
to  tea  on  Sunday.  Suppose  there's  room  in  that 
ridiculous  kitchen  for  you  both  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am."     Sally's  voice  was  joyful. 

"  Better  buy  some  cake  to-morrow.  Ginger- 
bread, plum  cake,  anything  you  like.  Don't  loiter 
now.     Get  to  bed  like  a  good  girl." 


56  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

And  Sally  fled,  feeling  that  Miss  Mason  was  a 
winged  angel  in  an  odd  disguise. 

Half  an  hour  later  Miss  Mason  herself  went  to 
her  bedroom.  It  was  dainty  and  charming.  The 
curtains  before  the  window  were  white  muslin, 
with  outer  curtains  of  white  dimity  and  borders  of 
tiny  pink  rosebuds.  The  quilt  covering  the  bed 
was  white  like  the  curtains,  it  also  had  a  border 
of  pink  rosebuds.  The  carpet  was  cream-coloured, 
the  furniture  Chippendale. 

When  Miss  Mason  was  ready  for  bed  she  knelt 
down,  her  hands  folded  on  the  rosebud-covered 
quilt.  The  old  petitions  of  childhood,  still  used 
by  the  woman  of  sixty  years,  failed  her  for  the 
first  time. 

"  God,"  said  Miss  Mason  softly,  "  I  am  happy, 
and  I  thank  You." 

That  was  all. 

She  got  into  bed.  For  a  long  time  she  lay  gaz- 
ing into  the  darkness  with  open  eyes.  She  was 
too  happy  to  sleep.  She  had  become  aware  of 
sounds  she  had  heard  at  intervals  during  the  even- 
ing almost  without  realizing  them  —  singing,  the 
twanging  of  banjos,  the  sound  of  laughter.  Now 
in  the  darkness  she  heard  them  clearly.  Her  old 
eyes  puckered  at  the  corners  into  little  delighted 
wrinkles. 

Then  suddenly  she  heard  the  notes  of  a  violin. 
Miss  Mason  had  no  knowledge  of  music,  but  even 


In  Bohemia  57 

to  her  ignorant  ears  the  hand  was  that  of  a  mas- 
ter.    When  it  stopped  there  was  silence. 

Presently  she  dozed.  Much  later  she  was  awak- 
ened from  a  half -sleep  by  laughter,  footsteps,  and 
louder  singing.     The  words  came  to  her  distinctly. 

She  lay  there  smiling,  a  queer  old  figure  in  a 
white  nightcap,  one  rather  bony  hand  beating  time 
softly  on  the  quilt. 

"  For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fe-el-low, 
And  so  say  all  of  we." 

With  a  little  sigh  of  supreme  content  Miss  Ma- 
son uttered  the  one  word: 
"Bohemia!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  FAUN  IN  THE  GARDEN 

BARNABAS  came  into  his  garden  in  the  early 
morning  sunshine.  His  hair  was  still  a  little 
wet,  for  he  had  only  just  had  his  bath.  He  was 
wearing  an  old  Turkish  dressing-gown,  purple  bed- 
room slippers,  and  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 

A  light  wind  was  blowing  through  the  courtyard. 
It  scattered  the  pink  petals  of  a  too  full-blown  la 
France  rose  upon  the  garden  path.  They  chased 
each  other  round  in  a  little  mad  dance,  first  down 
the  path,  then  in  circles  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of 
a  little  faun  playing  on  a  long  thin  reed.  The  faun 
looked  at  them  with  mocking,  laughing  eyes,  while 
he  piped  to  their  dancing. 

A  thrush  in  the  laburnum  tree  looked  at  Barna- 
bas for  a  moment,  but  as  it  had  already  got  used  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  neither  a  cat  nor  a  boy  with  a 
stone  handy,  it  began  to  sing  a  sweet  full-throated 
song. 

Barnabas  fingered  a  la  France  rosebud.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  little  green  blights  clinging  to 
the  petals.  He  blew  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke 
round  it.  The  blights  smiled  at  him,  so  to  speak. 
It  would  require  something  stronger  than  cigarette 

58 


The  Faun  in  the  Garden  59 

smoke  to  remove  them  from  their  lodging.  Barna- 
bas let  go  his  hold  on  the  rosebud. 

"  Hang  it  all,"  he  said.  "  I  daresay  they're  en- 
joying life  and  the  sunshine  as  much  as  I  am. 
They  don't  seem  to  be  hurting  the  roses,  anyhow." 

A  couple  of  white  butterflies  flew  into  the  gar- 
den. One  of  them  settled  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
dressing-gown.  Barnabas  looked  at  it.  It  did  not 
move,  only  its  wings  quivered  a  little. 

"  You  morsel  of  life,"  said  Barnabas,  "  you're 
enjoying  yourself  too." 

He  felt  a  sudden  odd  remorse  at  the  thought  of 
other  butterflies  he  had  long  ago  enclosed  in  wide- 
topped  bottles  filled  with  camphor,  and  then  pinned 
down  on  to  pieces  of  cork.  The  destructive  age 
had  not  lasted  long  with  Barnabas.  His  love  of 
Nature  was  too  whole-hearted  and  genuine. 

The  door  of  studio  number  seven  suddenly 
opened,  and  Sally  came  out  in  her  blue  print  dress. 
She  held  a  duster  in  her  hand  which  she  flapped 
two  or  three  times.  The  butterfly  flew  away  to 
perch  on  the  shoulder  of  the  faun. 

Sally  paused  for  a  moment  to  sniff  the  morning 
air.  She  did  not  see  Barnabas.  She  was  feeling 
very  happy.  She  was  seventeen,  it  was  eight 
o'clock  on  a  June  morning,  and  last  night  she  had 
written  to  her  young  man  —  a  stalwart  coal-heaver. 
The  letter  had  been  written  with  a  stubby  end  of 
pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  The  envelope  into 
which  she  had  put  it  had  not  stuck  well.     It  had 


60  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

required  much  pressure  from  Sally's  thumb.  The 
cleanest  thumb  will  leave  a  mark  on  an  envelope  if 
it  is  much  rubbed  on  it.  The  envelope  had  looked 
a  little  dirty,  and  Sally  had  sighed.  She  felt,  how- 
ever, that  the  words  it  contained  would  more  than 
make  up  in  Jim's  eyes  for  the  smear.  Later  she 
would  ask  leave  to  go  out  and  buy  a  stamp. 

Then  she  saw  Barnabas.  Her  work  having  lain 
hitherto  in  the  kitchen  rather  than  in  the  upstair 
regions,  she  was  not  used  to  the  appearance  of 
young  men  in  Turkish  dressing-gowns,  and  she 
blushed. 

"  Morning,"  said  Barnabas  pleasantly,  smiling 
at  the  girl.     She  made  him  think  of  a  wild  rose. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Sally,  and  she  dropped 
a  curtsey. 

Barnabas  looked  at  her  with  approval. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  make  curtsies,  child  ? 
I  thought  they'd  gone  out  of  fashion  with  Bibles, 
brown  sugar  on  bread  and  butter,  and  old  ladies." 

Sally  dropped  another  curtsey  from  pure  nerv- 
ousness. 

"  Please,  sir,  mother  taught  me,  sir.  She  was 
still-room  maid  in  a  big  house  before  she  married 
father.  She  said  born  ladies  curtseyed  to  the  King 
and  Queen,  and  we  curtseyed  to  the  born  ladies  — 
and  gentlemen,"  she  added. 

"  Then  your  mother,  child,  is  not  a  Socialist," 
said  Barnabas. 

"  Please,  sir,  mother  says,"  said  Sally  seriously, 


The  Faun  in  the  Garden  61 

14  that  Socialism  is  a  lot  of  silly  talk  among  dis- 
contented people  who'd  be  discontented  if  they  had 
the  moon  to  play  with.  She  says  Christ's  social- 
ism was  love  and  respect." 

Barnabas  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"  Your  mother  must  be  a  very  remarkable 
woman,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  while  Sally  looked 
at  him  and  at  the  white  butterfly  which  had  re- 
turned to  perch  upon  his  sleeve.  Then  a  sudden 
spirit  of  mischief,  born  of  the  wind  of  the  morning, 
took  possession  of  Barnabas. 

"  I  hope  we  didn't  disturb  your  mistress  with  our 
singing  last  night,"  he  said.  There  was  a  little 
glint  of  gay  devilry  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Sally  quickly.  "  I  asked  her 
ten  minutes  ago,  sir,  and  she  said,  '  Bless  you,  no, 
child.  Enjoyed  it.  They  sounded  so  delightfully 
young  and  happy.  Like  to  have  that  kind  of 
lullaby  every  night.' " 

Sally  was  an  unconscious  mimic.  Barnabas  got 
a  sudden  and  not  inaccurate  mental  image  of  Miss 
Mason  as  she  spoke  the  words.  A  little  pang  of 
remorse,  not  unlike  the  pang  he  had  experienced  at 
the  thought  of  the  butterflies,  smote  him  as  he  re- 
membered his  half-joking  conversation  with  Dan. 

"  Give  your  mistress  my  compliments,  and  tell 
her  I  am  glad  we  didn't  disturb  her.  Also  that  I 
shall  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon  her  at 
no  very  distant  date." 


62  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Sally,  and  she  turned  back  to- 
wards the  studio. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Barnabas,  "  what  is  your 
mistress's  name?" 

"  Miss  Mason,  sir,"  said  Sally.  She  dropped  a 
final  curtsey  and  disappeared  within  the  studio. 

Barnabas  lifted  his  arm  with  the  butterfly  on  it, 
and  brushed  its  wings  lightly  against  his  lips.  Ap- 
parently it  appreciated  the  treatment,  for  it  re- 
mained passive. 

"  Is  it  the  influence  of  the  morning,  the  wings 
of  a  white  butterfly,  or  the  wild-rose  face  of  that 
child?"  said  Barnabas. 

"  I  fancy  I  am  going  to  fall  in  love  with  Miss 
Mason." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   SIX   ARTISTS   OF   THE   COURTYARD 

THAT  same  afternoon  the  five  other  male  oc- 
cupants of  the  studios  dropped  in  to  tea  with 
Barnabas.  They  frequently  did.  They  liked  the 
cakes  he  bought  at  a  shop  in  the  Fulham  Road, 
and,  incidentally,  they  appreciated  Barnabas  him- 
self. They  had  one  and  all  announced  their  inten- 
tion previously. 

"  Meaning  me  to  buy  cakes,"  said  Barnabas. 
And  he  had  sent  his  man  to  the  Fulham  Road  to 
make  the  purchases. 

Barnabas  poured  out  the  tea,  which  was  drunk 
out  of  cream-coloured  cups  with  festoons  of  flow- 
ers on  them.  There  were  not  enough  chairs,  but 
a  couple  of  packing-cases  had  been  pressed  into 
service,  and  they  sat  round  an  oak  table  —  gate- 
legged. Barnabas  had  picked  it  up  for  a  mere  song 
at  a  filthy  little  shop  in  a  back  street.  He  was  very 
proud  of  the  bargain. 

The  six  men  were  curiously  dissimilar  in  appear- 
ance and  in  character.  One  took  in  the  outlines  of 
that,  as  one  took  in  their  appearance  at  the  first 
glance. 

Next  to  Barnabas  was  Dan  Oldfield,  huge,  red- 
haired,  and  untidy-looking.     He  was  one  of  a  large 

63 


64  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

family,  and  had  begun  his  artistic  career  at  a 
suburban  art  school,  where  he  had  risen  to  the  post 
of  pupil  teacher,  and  later  to  that  of  assistant  mas- 
ter. At  twenty-two  he  had  been  left  three  hundred 
a  year  by  an  uncle,  and  had  come  to  London  to 
study  at  the  Slade  Schools.  He  was  now  thirty, 
and  had  never  lost  the  idea  of  minute  finish  incul- 
cated in  him  at  the  art  school.  It  found  expression 
in  his  tiny  pictures  of  almost  miniature-like  work, 
pictures  which  the  palm  of  one  of  his  huge  hands 
would  have  covered. 

Beside  Dan  was  Jasper  Merton,  sallow,  clean- 
shaven, discontented  in  expression,  his  previous 
history  unknown  to  the  six  studios.  He  painted 
altar  pieces  at  low  rates  for  high  churches  in  poor 
districts,  which  paintings  were  usually  the  gift  of 
benevolent  and  religiously-minded  spinster  ladies. 
He  looked  —  as  Barnabas  had  once  said  —  as  if  he 
were  wearing  a  hair  shirt  for  the  good  of  his  soul, 
and  as  if  the  shirt  were  an  extra-prickly  one. 

Beyond  him  was  Alan  Farley,  who,  like  David 
of  old,  was  "  fair  and  of  a  ruddy  countenance." 
Nature  had  intended  him  for  a  cheerful  soul,  but 
art  of  the  ultra-mystic  type  had  taken  him  prisoner. 
He  painted  shadowy  figures  with  silver  stars  on 
their  brows,  non-petalled  roses,  and  purple  chalices ; 
he  read  Swinburne  and  the  poems  of  Fiona  Mac- 
leod,  and  talked  about  creative  genius. 

"  Creative  genius ! "  Barnabas  had  said  to  him 
one  day.     "  Man,  you  don't  understand  the  first 


The  Six  Artists  of  the  Courtyard      65 

principles  of  it.  Your  painting  is  pure  slither. 
Do  you  think  creation  is  slither?  It's  travail,  it's 
agonizing.  What  does  your  work  cost  you? 
Nothing.  An  airy  fancy,  half  an  hour's  mental 
indigestion,  and  there's  a  canvas  covered  with  pur- 
ples, greys,  and  greens.  The  colour's  all  right,  but 
what  on  earth  is  the  thing  worth  ?  I'm  not  talking 
monetary  jargon.  You  say  that  purple  mass  in 
the  corner  is  a  veiled  woman,  and  she's  talking 
through  opal  mists  to  a  silver  star.  Who  on 
earth's  going  to  find  that  out  unless  you  go  round 
like  a  kind  of  animated  catalogue  to  your  own  pic- 
tures. Get  hold  of  form,  man.  Study  it.  Draw 
—  draw  —  draw  —  till  you  can  express  ideas  tan- 
gibly. Leave  poetry  alone  for  a  bit  till  you're 
honoured  with  the  power  of  understanding  it. 
You're  being  mentally  sensual  and  don't  know  it. 
You  talk  of  passion!  Great  Scot!  You  don't 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  word,  nor  the  ABC 
of  nature." 

And  Alan  had  listened  and  taken  the  harangue 
meekly,  though  it  had  had,  apparently,  little  effect. 

Next  to  Alan  was  Paul  Trehern,  seated  on  a 
packing-case.  He  was  a  man  well  above  the  me- 
dium height,  and  with  a  lean-limbed  look  about 
him.  He  had  grey  eyes,  sad-like  his  mouth,  which 
was  partly  hidden  by  a  small  moustache.  Fate  had 
started  him  in  an  office,  which  he  hated.  Later  she 
had  taken  him  abroad,  where  he  had  lived  in  a 
tent  and  under  the  open  sky,  where  he  had  experi- 


66  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

enced  hardships  few  men  of  his  class  have  known, 
and  where  he  had  three  times  been  face  to  face 
with  death.  He  had  looked  at  sunsets  across  open 
plains,  and  seen  mountains  bathed  in  gold  and  pur- 
ple, and  the  crimson  fire  of  tropical  evenings.  He 
had  seen  the  blue  shadows  of  palm  trees  on  yellow 
sand ;  he  had  seen  the  scarlet  of  pomegranate  flow- 
ers, the  gold  of  oranges  against  azure  skies,  till  his 
whole  being  was  saturated  in  colour.  And  lastly 
he  had  returned  to  England  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
seven  to  find  in  the  soft  greys  and  lilacs  of  smoky 
London  an  even  more  wonderful  charm.  He  had 
then  an  income  of  eight  hundred  a  year,  four  of 
which  he  gave  to  his  widowed  mother,  who  lived 
in  a  little  house  in  Hampshire.  He  was  at  last  able 
to  turn  to  art,  which  he  had  always  loved  passion- 
ately, and  from  his  knowledge  of  character  gained 
through  much  experience  of  men  and  women,  and 
with  his  wonderful  sense  of  colour,  he  took  to  por- 
trait painting.  He  now,  besides  his  invested  in- 
come, earned,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  about  six 
hundred  a  year  by  his  brush.  He  sang  in  an  un- 
trained mellow  baritone  in  a  way  that  brought  tears 
to  one's  eyes. 

Between  Paul  and  Barnabas  was  Michael  Ches- 
ter, a  small  man,  one  shoulder  higher  than  the 
other,  and  with  one  leg  shrunken  and  twisted.  He 
had  had  a  pencil  in  his  hand  since  babyhood.  In 
illustration  and  line  work  he  excelled,  though  his 
choice  of  subjects  was  morbid.     His  paintings  of 


The  Six  Artists  of  the  Courtyard      67 

the  river  and  grey  London  streets  were  beautiful. 
There  was  something  almost  Whistler-ish  about 
them.  He  had  the  heart  of  a  true  poet,  and  the 
tongue  of  a  cynic,  and  he  played  the  violin  like  a 
god.  An  ultra-morbidity  regarding  his  own  ap- 
pearance had  lost  him  to  the  world  as  a  public 
violinist.  Nothing  would  have  induced  him  to 
mount  a  platform  or  enter  a  crowded  drawing- 
room.  The  studios  alone  were  given  the  benefit 
of  his  talent. 

And  finally,  master  of  the  ceremonies,  seated  on 
another  packing-case  was  Barnabas  —  tall,  brown- 
haired,  green-eyed,  and  sunny  hearted,  outwardly 
indolent,  and  beloved  of  his  fellow-men.  He  fol- 
lowed in  the  footsteps  of  Paul  as  a  portrait  painter, 
though  he  was  apt  to  say  it  was  "  the  devil  of  a  way 
behind." 

The  conversation  during  tea  had  somehow 
centred  round  a  certain  unconscious  old  lady,  who 
was  at  that  moment  cleaning  oil  paints  from  a  large 
mahogany  palette,  and  looking  with  humorous  dis- 
gust at  a  canvas  on  which  were  large  and  unsteady 
blobs  of  pink  paint  above  a  smear  of  green  and 
gold.  They  were  intended  to  represent  pink  roses 
in  a  Sevres  bowl,  but  had  failed  horribly  in  the  in- 
tention. 

The  conversation  had  begun  airily  enough,  five 
of  the  men  taking  part  in  it,  Barnabas  alone  being 
silent.  After  about  ten  minutes  it  began  to  be 
slightly  strained,  and  three  of  the  men  had  more  or 


68  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

less  dropped  out  of  it.  Dan  had,  however,  con- 
tinued to  express  his  views  somewhat  clearly  and 
with  a  certain  amount  of  gruffness.  Jasper  was 
being  annoyingly  Christian-like  in  his  attitude. 

"  I  intend  to  call  on  the  lady,  at  all  events,"  he 
said  at  last,  with  exasperating  decision.  "  After 
what  you  two  fellows  said  yesterday  I  felt  that  I 
at  least " 

"  Not  you  only,  my  child,"  interrupted  Barna- 
bas good-humouredly,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
"  We're  all  going.     We  begin  on  Sunday." 

"  Won't  the  lady  be  a  trifle  overwhelmed  ? " 
asked  Paul. 

"  I  didn't  mean  all  at  the  same  time,  or  on  the 
same  day,"  explained  Barnabas.  "  I  intended  that 
we  should  go  in  detachments.  I  thought  Dan  and 
I  could  begin  —  take  the  initial  step,  so  to  speak." 

"  And  who  next  ?  "  asked  Paul,  smiling. 

"  Jasper  and  Alan,  as  Jasper's  so  keen  about  it," 
said  Barnabas.     "  Then  you  and  Michael." 

Michael  looked  at  the  tip  of  his  cigarette  through 
half -closed  eyes. 

"  You  can  leave  me  out  of  the  little  programme," 
he  said.     "  I  don't  pay  calls." 

14  And  I'm  calling  on  my  great  aunt's  step- 
mother on  Sunday,"  said  Dan.  "  Sorry,  Barna- 
bas, but  it's  a  prior  engagement." 

"  You  can  send  a  wire  to  that  purely  fictitious 
person  —  if  you  know  her  address  —  and  put  her 
off,"  replied  Barnabas. 


The  Six  Artists  of  the  Courtyard      69 

"  I'll  be  damned "  began  Dan. 

Jasper  got  up  from  his  chair.  "  I  will  leave  you 
five  to  make  your  own  arrangements,"  he  said. 
"  I  shall  call  upon  Miss  Mason  at  five  o'clock  on 
Monday  afternoon.  If  Alan  comes  with  me  I 
shall  be  pleased.  I've  got  an  engagement  now. 
Good-bye." 

He  left  the  studio.  There  was  a  very  slight  and 
almost  unconscious  movement  of  relief  among  the 
remaining  men. 

"  Your  language  jarred  on  his  nervous  suscepti- 
bilities, Dan,"  said  Michael.  "  And  he  thinks  our 
attitude  altogether  unchristian." 

"  Wish  he'd  get  himself  fixed  up  in  one  of  the 
panels  of  his  own  altarpieces,  and  carried  off  to 
the  highest  church  in  London,"  said  Dan.  "  It 
would  be  much  the  best  place  for  him." 

"  I'll  not  call  with  him,"  said  Alan  firmly.  »  If 
I  do  make  a  martyr  of  myself  it  will  be  by  myself 
or  with  one  of  you  others." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  quite  suddenly 
Barnabas  told  them  of  Miss  Mason's  little  speech 
to  Sally.  Somehow  he  had  been  unable  to  mention 
it  in  Jasper's  presence. 

Again  there  was  a  pause.     Then  Dan  laughed. 

"  You're  confoundedly  sentimental,  Barnabas, 
my  son.     I  suppose  I'll  have  to  send  that  wire." 

Michael  smiled,  a  queer  twisted  smile. 

"  Barnabas  has  a  curious  faculty  for  keeping  si- 
lence till  the  crucial  moment,"  he  said.     "  He  then 


70  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

makes  some  little  trivial  remark  which  invariably 
manages  to   upset   all   our   preconceived   notions." 

"  He  is,"  said  Paul,  "  as  Dan  says,  a  pure  sen- 
timentalist." 

The  atmosphere  had  lightened.  Jasper's  depar- 
ture and  Barnabas'  little  speech  had  had  a  curious 
effect  upon  it.  A  mental  fog  had  previously  crept 
into  the  studio.  It  often  found  its  way  into  the 
rooms  Jasper  entered.  Sometimes  he  seemed  to 
leave  it  behind,  but  it  generally  came  to  find  him, 
creeping  thin  and  ghostlike  through  the  keyhole, 
through  the  cracks  in  the  doors,  through  the  chinks 
in  the  windows,  settling  thickly  round  him,  and  cast- 
ing its  gloom  over  the  room  and  the  other  occupants. 

And  the  gods  of  Joy  and  Laughter,  who  cannot 
breathe  in  such  an  atmosphere,  would  silently  de- 
part. Now,  however,  they  had  found  their  way  back, 
slipping  easily  and  gladly  into  the  place  they  loved. 

When,  half  an  hour  later,  Michael  limped  down 
the  garden  path  with  Paul,  he  nodded  in  the  di- 
rection of  studio  number  seven. 

"  Shall  we  say  Tuesday  afternoon  for  our  call  ?  " 
he  asked  carelessly" 

Paul  had  a  momentary  feeling  of  surprise.  He 
did  not  show  it. 

"  Right,"  he  replied  equally  carelessly. 

And  the  little  faun  laughed  to  hear  them,  and 
piped  a  madder  dance  still  to  the  rose-petals  which 
had  whirled  below  his  pedestal  at  intervals  through- 
out the  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
'A  man's  conscience 

JASPER  MERTON  was  a  man  who  had  been 
born  with  a  curious  kind  of  conscience.  He 
was  perpetually  looking  at  it,  dusting  it,  and  seeing 
that  it  kept  in  what  he  considered  perfect  working 
order.  In  reality  it  only  worked  spasmodically 
and  at  unexpected  intervals.  He  possessed,  also, 
an  enormous  amount  of  that  quality  which  is  gen- 
erally termed  artistic  sensitiveness,  but  which  is 
most  frequently  a  polite  and  pretty  name  for  self- 
ishness. He  see-sawed  between  conscience  and  — 
it  must  be  given  its  right  name  —  selfishness,  in  a 
manner  which  made  his  life  not  only  uncomfort- 
able to  himself,  but  almost  equally  uncomfortable 
to  others. 

He  had,  too,  a  skeleton  which  he  kept  in  a  cup- 
board, in  other  words,  in  a  small  —  a  very  small 
—  house  in  Chiswick.  That  skeleton  was  a  woman. 
She  was  his  wife,  and  a  secret. 

None  of  his  fellow-artists  had  ever  dreamt  of 
asking  him  if  he  were  married.  It  never  dawned 
on  them  to  ask  a  man,  who  was  apparently  a  bach- 
elor and  who  obviously  disliked  the  company  of 

71 


72  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

women,  such  a  question;  and  he  had  no  near  rela- 
tions to  trouble  their  heads  about  him. 

He  was  twenty-three  when  he  married  her,  and 
she  was  eighteen.  She  was  a  slight,  fair-haired 
girl  with  blue  eyes  and  a  lovable  nature.  He  had 
worshipped  her  to  the  whole  extent  of  his  selfish 
disposition.  At  the  end  of  a  year  a  child  had  been 
born  to  them.  It  had  lived  two  years  —  a  tod- 
dling blue-eyed  mite  with  fair  hair  like  its  mother. 
It  had  little  caressing  ways  and  soft  baby  cooings 
of  laughter. 

But  one  day  the  laughter  had  ceased,  and  from 
the  nursery  had  come  sounds  of  a  child  in  anguish. 
A  basin  of  boiling  water  had  been  left  on  the  table 
by  a  careless  nurse,  and  pulled  over  by  a  pair  of 
small,  clutching  hands.  A  week  of  horror  had  fol- 
lowed. The  child  had  lived  for  four  days  in  agony, 
even  drugs  could  not  soothe  its  pain,  or  quiet  the 
terrible  sobbing  voice.  Jasper  had  fled  from  the 
house. 

When  he  had  returned  his  wife  had  met  him 
white  and  tearless. 

"  My  baby's  at  peace,  thank  God,"  she  had  said. 
And  then  she  had  laughed.  She  had  not  slept  ex- 
cept from  momentary  exhaustion  for  four  nights 
and  days. 

Later  in  the  evening  he  had  found  her  drunk  in 
the  dead  child's  room.  He  had  carried  her  from 
it  and  locked  the  door. 

In  the  morning  she  had  come  to  him  and  had 


A  Man's  Conscience  73 

tried  to  speak.  His  look  of  disgust  had  made 
speech  impossible. 

"  Jasper "  she  had  said  brokenly. 

"I  —  I  can't  say  anything,"  he  had  stammered. 
And  he  had  gone  from  her. 

When  he  had  returned  in  the  evening  it  was  to 
find  her  again  drunk.  This  time  in  the  dining- 
room. 

That  was  the  beginning.  He  had  never  been 
able  to  hide  his  disgust,  his  love  had  been  killed. 
Conscience,  which  held  the  word  Duty  before  him, 
spelling  it  with  a  capital,  told  him  to  make  the  best 
of  things;  his  sensitiveness  shrank  from  the  woman 
as  from  something  loathsome. 

After  the  child's  funeral  she  had  pulled  herself 
partially  together,  and  he  had  never  found  her 
in  the  same  condition  again.  But  she  had  lost  all 
her  old  charm.  She  grew  listless  in  manner, 
slovenly  and  untidy  in  dress.  Now  and  then  she 
would  look  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  a  dumb  thing 
asking  for  help.  He  never  saw  her  eyes.  He  had 
avoided  looking  at  them.  The  sight  of  her  —  her 
untidy  hair,  her  neglected  dress  —  had  offended  his 
sensitive  taste.  Little  by  little  they  had  drifted 
mentally  further  apart.  Finally  they  had  sep- 
arated. Even  the  separation  had  been  gradual. 
First  he  had  taken  his  small  house  in  Chiswick 
and  the  studio  in  Chelsea,  living  at  home,  and  go- 
ing daily  to  his  work.  She  had  known  what  the 
outcome  would  be,  but  had  said  nothing.     Later 


74  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

he  had  begun  to  sleep  at  the  studio,  returning  only 
for  the  week-end.  He  had  spoken  of  the  distance, 
making  it  an  excuse. 

And  now  there  was  only  occasional  visits, 
prompted  entirely  by  conscience.  He  had  left  the 
studio  to  pay  one  of  these  visits  that  afternoon. 
An  extraordinary  priggishness  of  manner  towards 
his  fellow-men  was  an  invariable  preface  to  them. 

As  the  tram  bore  him  into  the  suburbs  he  gave 
a  little  shiver  of  disgust.  The  commonplace  ugli- 
ness of  the  houses  was  an  eyesore  to  him.  He 
pictured  the  inhabitants  as  dull,  well-meaning,  ultra- 
respectable  —  leading  a  carpet-slipper,  roast-beef, 
little-music-in-the-evenings  —  kind  of  life.  He 
thought  of  the  men  as  all  old  and  fat,  or  young 
and  conceited;  of  the  women  as  thin  and  care- 
worn, or  flashy  and  bejewelled.  His  mental  pic- 
tures were  either  extremely  commonplace  or  ex- 
tremely tawdry. 

Suddenly  his  conscience  began  to  fidget.  It  was 
becoming  uncomfortable.  What  right  had  he  to 
feel  like  that,  it  said.  They  were  every  bit  as  good 
as  he  was.  Who  was  he  to  sit  in  judgment  on  his 
fellow-men  ? 

He  put  the  mental  pictures  aside.  He  said  a  lit- 
tle prayer  for  charity.  Then  he  looked  at  his  con- 
science again,  and  satisfied  himself  that  he  had 
swept  away  the  dust  specks  which  had  caused  it  a 
momentary  uneasiness. 

But  he  never  thought,  of  the  poetry  that  might 


A  Man's  Conscience  75 

be  hidden  away  in  the  lives  passed  within  those  ugly 
walls,  nor  listened  for  the  old,  old  tunes  of  love 
and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  birth  and  death,  that 
were  played  for  them  as  they  were  played  for  those 
who  dwelt  in  infinitely  more  picturesque  surround- 
ings. And  if  he  had  heard  the  music  he  would 
probably  have  said  that  the  metre  was  out  of  time, 
the  notes  old  and  cracked,  or  thin  and  tuneless. 

At  last  he  left  the  tram  and  turned  up  a  side 
street.  The  houses  in  it  were  small,  red  brick,  and 
each  of  a  pattern  exactly  like  the  other.  They 
stood  a  little  way  back  from  the  pavement,  sep- 
arated from  it  by  a  low  brick  wall  on  top  of  which 
was  an  ugly  iron  railing.  Each  of  the  tiny  plots 
of  ground  in  front  of  the  houses  was  divided  from 
the  neighbouring  plot  by  more  iron  railings.  Some 
of  the  plots  were  merely  gravel,  others  grass,  while 
a  few  had  blossomed  out  into  flower-beds  gay  with 
flowers. 

He  turned  into  one  of  the  gravel  plots  and  went 
up  four  steps  to  the  front  door.  He  rang  the  bell. 
His  face  was  perfectly  expressionless.  It  was  like 
the  face  of  a  man  who  is  self-hypnotized. 

"  Your  mistress  in  ? "  he  said  to  the  untidy 
woman  who  answered  the  door. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Will  you  come  into  the  sitting-room  ? 
I'll  tell  'er." 

Jasper  went  into  the  sitting-room.  He  stood  on 
the  hearthrug  in  the  attitude  of  a  stranger.  The 
tea-things  had  not  been  cleared  away,  they  were 


j6  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

still  on  the  table,  which  was  covered  with  a  white 
cloth  showing  various  grease  spots.  The  tea- 
things  themselves  were  on  a  black  tin  tray  with  the 
enamel  scratched  off  in  two  or  three  places.  There 
was  a  loaf  of  bread  on  the  table,  a  pat  of  soft- 
looking  butter  on  a  plate,  a  pot  of  strawberry- 
jam  from  which  the  spoon  had  fallen  making 
a  red  smear  on  the  cloth,  and  a  remnant  of  stale 
cake. 

The  furniture  in  the  room  was  not  ugly,  but  the 
whole  place  had  a  desolate  look.  A  French  novel 
in  a  yellow  paper  cover  lay  open  face  downwards 
on  a  small  table  near  the  hearthrug.  Jasper  picked 
it  up,  glanced  at  the  title,  and  put  it  down  again 
with  a  little  movement  of  disgust. 

The  door  opened  and  a  woman  came  in.  She 
was  wearing  a  loose  and  rather  shabby  brown  dress ; 
her  hair,  which  was  really  a  beautiful  pale  gold, 
looked  unbrushed  and  uncared  for.  She  wore  it 
parted  and  in  an  untidy  knot  at  the  nape  of  her 
neck.  The  only  neat  thing  about  her  were  her 
hands,  which  were  small  hands,  the  nails  polished 
and  manicured. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Jasper,"  she  said,  and  she  sat 
down.     She  did  not  even  offer  to  shake  hands. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Bridget,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  laughed.  "  Is  that  a  gentle  reminder  to  me 
of  my  manners,  or  a  query  as  to  my  health?  I'm 
all  right,  thanks." 

Jasper  stood   irresolute.     This  nonchalant  atti- 


A  Man's  Conscience  77 

tude  of  his  wife  pained  him.  She  was  usually 
more  apathetic. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,"  she  said  politely,  "  that 
is  if  you  wish  to  stay  for  your  usual  hour." 

Jasper  put  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  sofa  and  sat 
down  on  a  chair  near  the  table.  His  eye  fell  on 
the  tray. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  a  new  one,"  he  said  half 
irritably,  "  or  at  least  cover  it  with  a  tea-cloth  ?  I 
hate  these  black,  scratched  things.  I  don't  keep 
you  short  of  money." 

She  glanced  towards  the  offending  article. 

"  You  don't  often  see  it,  do  you  ?  "  she  queried. 
"I'm  used  to  it;  besides,  I  haven't  an  artistic  eye. 
Emma  shall  take  it  away  if  it  displeases  you." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  the  woman  who  had  opened 
the  front  door  appeared. 

"  Take  away  the  tea-things,"  said  Bridget  care- 
lessly.    "  Mr.  Merton  doesn't  like  to  see  them." 

The  woman  piled  the  things  on  to  the  tray,  and 
gathered  the  cloth  in  a  bundle  under  one  arm.  She 
left  the  room  with  them. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Well,"  said  Bridget  encouragingly,  "  five  min- 
utes of  the  hour  have  gone." 

Jasper  moved  impatiently.  "  I  don't  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  you  this  evening,  Bridget.  I 
don't  know  you  in  this  mood." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  with  a  slightly  mocking 
expression. 


78  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Do  you  ever  notice  my  moods  ?  That  is 
news  to  me.  I  was  waiting  for  the  usual  lec- 
tures." 

Jasper  frowned.  "  I  don't  want  to  lecture  you. 
I  don't  come  here  to  lecture  you.  I  have  only 
sometimes  asked  you  to  keep  your  hair  tidy  and 
wear  becoming  dresses.  There's  nothing  in  the 
way  of  a  lecture  about  that." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  It's  hardly 
worth  while  to  trouble,  is  it?  No  one  sees  me 
but  you,  and  then  only  four  times  a  year." 

"Your  own  self-respect "  he  began. 

She  looked  at  him. 

"  I  lost  that,"  she  said  quietly,  "  long  ago." 

"  It  is  never  too  late,"  he  said.  There  was  now 
a  touch  of  priggishness  in  his  manner.  Conscience 
had  given  him  a  little  push. 

"Isn't  it?"  she  said.  "I  think  it  is.  You 
showed  me  that." 

"  I  ?  "     Jasper  was  frankly  amazed. 

"  Yes,  you." 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean.  I  tried 
to  help  you.  I've  begged  you  again  and  again 
to  dress  decently,  to  care  for  your  appearance. 
I " 

"  You  left  me."  The  words  were  perfectly 
quiet.     They  were  the  mere  statement  of  a  fact. 

"I  —  I Our  life  together  was  a  misery," 

he  stammered.  "  I  tried  for  two  years  to  help 
you.     I " 


A  Man's  Conscience  79 

"How  did  you  try  to  help  me?"  she  asked. 
"  By  talking  calm  platitudes  through  a  kind  of 
moral  disinfectant  sheet  —  which  you  held  between 
us,  unable,  for  all  your  high  faluting  words,  to 
keep  the  disgust  out  of  your  voice,  the  loathing 
out  of  your  eyes.  I  had  offended  your  fastidious 
taste  —  yes,  I  know  I  had  seemed  horrible,  that  I 
was  horrible;  but  how  ten  thousand  times  more 
horrible  do  you  think  I  felt  to  myself?  And  yet  I 
knew  I  had  some  excuse." 

"  Excuse,"  he  said  sternly,  strong  in  his  moral 
self -righteousness,  "excuse  for  lying  drunk  in 
the  room  with  our  dead  child."  He  shuddered. 
The  memory  of  the  sight  filled  him  with  horror. 

She  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  It  was  shak- 
ing. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  you  shall  have  the  truth 
for  once,  though  I  am  not  speaking  it  in  justifica- 
tion of  myself.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  those 
four  days  and  nights  of  torture,  when  every  cry 
of  anguish  my  baby  uttered  was  like  a  red-hot 
needle  piercing  my  heart  and  brain?  Have  you 
thought  that  there  were  moments  when  I  felt  in 
my  wild  misery  that  I  must  fly  from  the  sound 
of  them,  but  that  her  baby-hands  were  seeking 
mine,  her  voice  calling  in  vain  to  me  to  help 
her.  You  shudder?  You  shuddered  then  and 
fled.  The  sensitiveness  of  your  nature  could 
not  stand  the  sight  and  sounds  of  agony.  When 
at  last  it  ceased,   and   reason  told  me  my  baby 


80  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

was  at  peace,  I  still  heard  her  voice.  The  doctor 
had  sent  me  to  bed.  I  could  not  rest.  I  got  up. 
I  saw  you.  You  went  to  your  own  room  to  weep. 
I  had  gone  through  the  agony  alone.  I  was  to 
go  through  the  grief  alone.  I  was  faint  when  I 
took  the  brandy.  I  did  not  know  it  would  affect 
me  as  it  did.  I  was  worn  out,  and  it  went  to  my 
head.  I  heard  her  voice  again.  I  thought  it  real 
that  time.  I  stumbled  upstairs  to  the  room  where 
you  found  me.  In  the  morning  I  remembered 
what  had  happened.  I  loathed  myself.  I  came  to 
you  and  saw  the  same  loathing  in  your  eyes.  The 
next  few  days  I  drank  purposely  to  gain  oblivion, 
and  I  hated  myself  for  doing  it  more  than  you  can 
ever  have  hated  me.     But  one  night  I  thought  I 

saw  my  baby "  she  paused.     "  I  never  took  the 

stuff  again,  though  there  were  moments  when  I 
longed  for  it.  I  wanted  to  ask  your  help,  to  tell 
you  what  I  had  suffered.  I  could  not.  I  saw  the 
look  in  your  eyes.  It  kept  awake  in  me  the  memory 
of  that  —  that  day.  Only  at  night,  in  the  darkness, 
I  forgot  it.  I  could  feel  my  baby  in  my  arms,  her 
hair  against  my  lips " 

She  stopped. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  silence:  Jasper 
broke  it. 

"  I  did  not  understand,"  he  said.  It .  was  an 
admission  on  his  part.  At  the  time  she  did  not 
realize  it. 

"  Of  course  you  did  not/'  she  said,  and  a  trace 


A  Man's  Conscience  81 

of  weariness  had  found  its  way  into  her  voice. 
"  You  would  never  understand  what  offended  your 
taste.  For  a  crime  alone  you  might  find  excuse, 
provided  it  was  sufficiently  picturesque.  For  mere 
sordidness  there  is  none  in  your  eyes.  You  said 
it  was  not  too  late.  I  say  it  is.  For  years  your 
refinement  and  your  conscience  have  been  at  war. 
You  have  not  had  the  moral  courage  to  leave  me, 
nor  the  manhood  to  help  me  —  to  help  me  to  regain 
the  self-respect  I  lost  seven  years  ago.  I  am  tired 
at  last  of  you,  tired  of  these  perfunctory  visits. 
They  can  end." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Jasper. 

"  Simply  that  I  don't  want  to  see  you  again. 
You  can't  get  a  divorce  —  I  have  at  least  been  faith- 
ful to  you ;  there  is  not  even  cause  for  a  legal  sepa- 
ration   " 

"  Bridget !  "  he  cried,  shocked.  "  I  have  never 
wanted " 

She  held  up  her  hand. 

"  Please  don't  protest,  Jasper.  Actions  speak  a 
good  deal  louder  than  words.  You  have  hated 
these  four  yearly  visits  quite  as  much  as  I  have. 
Your  conscience  has  ordered  you  to  make  them. 
You  have  kept  it  quiet  by  a  quarterly  journey  to 
Chiswick.  Your  refinement  has  shrunk  more  each 
time  from  the  sight  of  me.  The  fact  that  Duty 
alone  was  urging  you  to  it  has  made  it  more  diffi- 
cult for  you.  Now  it  is  I  who  say  they  must 
cease." 


82  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  You  are  my  wife,"  he  said  stubbornly. 

She  laughed.  "  You  always  had  little  sense  of 
humour,  Jasper,  and  now  I  think  that  little  must 
have  died.  You  don't  understand  what  I  mean? 
That  shows  it  is  quite  —  quite  dead.  I  am  now 
going  to  take  all  responsibility  off  your  shoulders 
by  refusing  to  see  you  again." 

"And  if  I  refuse?" 

"  Then  I  shall  go  away  where  you  cannot  find 
me. 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent. 

"  How  can  you  live  if  I  don't  know  where  you 
are?"  he  asked.  "You  have  no  money  of  your 
own.     I  must  send  you  some." 

"  I  know  you  have  considered  it  your  duty  to 
make  me  an  allowance,"  she  replied,  "  and  in  my 
candid  opinion  that  is  still  your  duty.  If,  how- 
ever, you  persist  in  coming  to  see  me  I  shall  make 
it  impossible  for  you  to  send  me  money  by  going 
away  where  you  will  be  unable  to  find  me.  I  can 
work.  It  might  be  better  for  me  to  do  so.  You 
can  decide." 

"  I  shall  send  you  the  money,"  he  said  stub- 
bornly. 

"  And  not  attempt  to  see  me  —  you  promise?  " 

"  You  force  me  into  giving  the  promise.  I  can't 
let  my  wife  work  for  her  living,  or  starve." 

She  got  up  from  her  chair. 

"  Very  well,  then,  that  is  understood.  I've  taken 
you  by  surprise  this  afternoon.     I  think  I  have 


A  Man's  Conscience  83 

surprised  myself.  At  present  you  resent  my  in- 
terference with  your  conscience.  Later  you  will 
feel  the  relief.  Now,  though  your  hour  is  not  yet 
up,  it  would  be  wiser  if  we  said  good-bye." 

He  got  to  his  feet.  The  whole  interview  had 
been  so  unexpected  he  was  feeling  a  little  dazed. 

"  Good-bye,  Jasper."     She  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Bridget."  Then  Conscience  —  the 
officious  —  spoke.  Jasper  bent  forward  to  kiss  his 
wife. 

She  drew  back. 

"  Isn't  that  rather  ridiculous  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a 
hint  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice. 

Jasper  flushed.  He  hated  anything  approaching 
ridicule.  He  had  taken  her  word-slashings  quietly. 
They  had  not  yet  even  fully  penetrated  his  plate- 
armour  of  self-righteousness. 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  he  said.  "  I  only  thought 
that  as  I  was  not  seeing  you  again " 

"  Three  months  or  a  lifetime !  It  doesn't  make 
much  difference  to  us,  does  it  ?  " 

He  met  her  eyes.  Beneath  the  look  in  them  his 
own  fell.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  experi- 
enced something  like  genuine  shame,  not  the  little 
meretricious  prickings  of  conscience  with  which  he 
was  wont  to  bewail  his  small  or  imaginary  sins. 
To  his  great  short-comings  he  was  blind. 

"  You  hate  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said  shortly,  "  for  a  wonder,  I  don't. 
Good-bye." 


84  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

He  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  passed  out. 
A  second  later  she  heard  the  iron  gate  clang  to, 
and  his  receding  steps  on  the  pavement. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  listening,  then  turned 
towards  the  hearth.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  the 
mantelpiece  and  gripped  it  hard. 

"  If  only  he  had  helped  me,"  she  said.  "  God, 
why  didn't  you  let  me  die  with  my  baby  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

VISITORS 

MISS  MASON  was  sitting  in  her  studio  at 
four  o'clock  on  Sunday  afternoon.  She 
was  reading  a  small,  red-covered  book,  within 
whose  pages  was  enshrined  a  brief  account  of  the 
life  and  work  of  Whistler. 

At  intervals  she  looked  up  from  her  reading  to 
glance  round  the  studio  and  smile.  It  was  her 
dream  incarnate.  She  had  waited  forty-three 
years  for  its  birth.  She  realized  now  that  she  had 
always  wanted  it,  had  always  believed  in  it. 
All  through  the  old  days  in  the  rose-beds,  when 
she  had  pruned  the  trees,  when  she  had  grafted 
new  buds,  when  she  had  watched  the  flowers 
expanding,  she  had  dreamt  of  this  studio.  Only 
at  moments  it  had  looked  real ;  generally  it  was 
far  off  and  shadowy,  but  always  it  had  been 
before  her,  and  something  had  whispered  to  her 
heart,  "  Wait ;  one  day  it  will  come." 

And  now  it  was  no  faint  shadowy  dream,  but 
a  living  reality,  and  it  would  bring  more  glorious 
realities  in  its  train.  Nothing  could  be  too 
wonderful  to  happen  in  the  castle  of  her  dreams. 

Again  she  looked  round  the  studio,  and  again 
85 


86  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

she  smiled.  She  would  have  liked  to  sing  for 
happiness,  only  her  voice  was  too  gruff  and 
cracked.  She  would  have  liked  to  dance  for  joy, 
only  her  old  legs  were  too  stiff.  But  she  minded 
neither  of  these  things,  for  her  heart  was  beating 
to  a  little  gay  secret  tune  in  which  joy  and  thank- 
fulness were  woven  in  delicious  harmony. 

From  behind  the  door  that  led  to  the  tiny 
kitchen  she  heard  murmured  sounds  and  an  occa- 
sional deep  laugh.  Sally's  scrappy  little  note 
had  been  answered  by  the  appearance  of  Jim 
in  his  Sunday-best,  shining  from  the  washtub, 
redolent  of  yellow  soap,  every  trace  of  his  black 
weekday  occupation  removed.  They  were  now 
cooing  like  a  pair  of  young  turtle-doves  in  a 
cage. 

Suddenly  Miss  Mason  was  startled  by  a  knock. 

A  moment  later  the  door  which  led  from  the 
studio  to  the  little  vestibule  opened,  and  Sally 
announced : 

"  Mr.  Kirby  and  Mr.  Oldfield." 

Miss  Mason's  heart  fluttered.  It  is  an  odd 
emotion,  and  now  nearly  out  of  fashion.  It 
belonged  to  the  days  of  "  Cranford,"  "  Evelina," 
and  Sense  and  Sensibility.  Now  all  emotions  are 
big  and  passionate,  or  calm  and  well-controlled. 
There  are  few  gentle  excitements  left. 

In  spite  of  the  fluttering,  Miss  Mason  rose  to  her 
feet,  a  quiet  dignified  old  figure. 

"  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  she  said,  and 


Visitors  87 

she  gave  them  each  her  hand  with  the  air  of  a 
queen.     "  Sally,"  she  said,  "  bring  tea." 

She  sat  down  again.  There  was  a  little  pink 
flush  in  her  cheeks.  For  forty-three  years  she 
had  spoken  to  no  man  of  her  own  class  except 
the  vicar  and  doctor.  The  interview  with  Mr. 
Davis  being  purely  on  business  did  not  count. 

Barnabas  and  Dan  put  their  caps  on  the  oak 
chest  beside  the  Sevres  bowl  which  was  filled  with 
the  pink  roses  with  whose  portraiture  Miss  Mason 
had  so  sadly  failed.    Then  they  sat  down. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Even  Barnabas' 
mental  picture  of  Miss  Mason  —  a  picture  supplied 
by  Sally's  unconscious  imitation  of  her  —  had 
not  quite  come  up  to  the  quaintness  of  the  reality. 
He  felt  that  he  had  suddenly  stepped  back  at 
least  a  century.  There  was  about  the  atmosphere 
a  hint  of  potpourri  and  long-ago  half -forgotten 
days  that  are  laid  up  in  lavender.  There  was  a 
completeness  about  the  whole  thing  —  from  the  oak 
dresser  with  its  blue  plates,  the  Sevres  bowl  and 
the  pink  roses,  to  the  woman  in  her  voluminous 
black  dress,  wide  white  collar,  and  abundant 
grey  hair  covered  with  the  finest  of  old  lace  caps 
—  a  completeness  that  only  an  artist  could  fully 
realize,  though  most  people  would  have  felt. 

She  was  so  extraordinarily  ugly  too.  No 
ordinary  commonplace  plainness  of  feature,  but 
downright  ugliness,  yet  without  the  smallest 
trace  of  repulsiveness  in  it.     It  was  a  fascinating 


88  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

kind  of  ugliness,  and  the  eyes  in  the  ugly  face — • 
they  alone  were  really  beautiful  —  shone  like  bits 
of  red-brown  amber.     It  is  a  colour  rarely  seen. 

Barnabas  broke  the  silence. 

"  Your  studio,"  he  said,  "  is  charming.  Dan 
and  I  watched  the  furniture  coming  in  on  Thurs- 
day morning.  If  it  is  not  impertinent  of  me,  may 
I  congratulate  you  on  it  ?  " 

"Glad  you  like  it,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "It's 
the  first  studio  I've  ever  seen,  but  it's  the  kind 
I  always  wanted.  Have  always  pictured  studios 
in  my  mind  like  this  one." 

"  You're   lucky   in  your   mental   images,"    said 

Dan.     "  If  you  saw  ours "  he  broke  off  and 

shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  But  perhaps,"  said  Miss  Mason  anxiously, 
"  yours  is  the  real  thing,  and  mine " 

"  Yours,"  said  Barnabas,  "  is  the  dream  to 
which  we  aspire,  and  to  which  we  cannot  achieve. 
When  you  see  ours  —  and  we  hope  you  will  honour 
us  with  your  presence  —  you  will  realize  how  very 
far  short  of  our  aspirations  they  must  fall." 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Mason  almost  wistfully, 
"you  paint  real  pictures  in  them." 

"  Try  to  do  so,"  said  Dan  gruffly,  "  and  a  few 
of  us  succeed.  Even  in  that  most  of  us  fail  as  we 
fail  in  our  furniture.  Paul  and  Michael  are  our 
geniuses." 

"  Paul  and  Michael  ?  "  queried  Miss  Mason. 

"  Mr.    Treherne    and    Mr.    Chester,"    explained 


Visitors  89 

Barnabas.  "  They  live  in  studios  numbers  one 
and  three  respectively.  Jasper  Merton  has  number 
five,  Alan  Farley  number  four,  Dan  number  two, 
and  mine  is  number  six,  next  door  to  you." 

"  The  garden  with  the  faun,"  said  Miss  Mason. 

"  The  garden  with  the  faun,"  replied  Barnabas. 
And  then  he  got  up  to  move  a  table  for  Sally, 
who  had  come  in  with  the  tea-things,  blue  willow 
china  on  a  tray  covered  with  the  daintiest  of 
damask  cloths.  She  brought  in  more  dishes  with 
cakes  and  bread  and  butter,  and  a  copper  kettle 
which  was  singing  its  heart  out  on  a  little  spirit 
lamp.     Then  she  left  the  room. 

Miss  Mason  warmed  the  teapot  and  the  tea- 
cups, measured  the  tea,  and  filled  the  teapot  with 
boiling  water.  Then  she  took  up  the  sugar- 
tongs. 

*  Sugar  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  One  lump  each,"  said  Barnabas. 

She  put  the  little  cubes  into  the  cups,  poured 
in  milk  and  tea,  and  handed  the  cups  to  the  men. 

"  Help  yourselves,"  she  said.  Then  she  looked 
up  and  smiled. 

"Am  quite  delighted  to  see  you,"  she  said, 
"  but  you'll  have  to  do  the  talking.  Don't 
suppose  I've  spoken  more  than  six  words  a  day 
for  the  last  twenty  years,  till  the  last  three 
weeks.  Then  it  has  been  entirely  about  furniture. 
I've  got  out  of  the  way  of  conversation." 

"  Barnabas    will    supply   the   need,"    said    Dan. 


9°  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  He  has  the  biggest  flow  of  conversation  I've 
ever  met.     Only  it's  largely  nonsense." 

"  Should  like  nonsense,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
"  Never  talked  nonsense  in  my  life." 

"No?"  queried  Barnabas  politely,  his  eyes 
twinkling. 

Then  they  all  three  laughed.  And  in  the  laugh 
Miss  Mason  forgot  that  she  was  trying  to  hide 
her  shyness,  for  it  suddenly  disappeared,  and  there 
was  nothing  left  to  hide.  She  forgot  that  she 
had  never  set  eyes  on  the  men  till  ten  minutes 
ago.  She  was  no  longer  a  hostess  trying  to  feel 
at  ease  with  strangers.  She  was  just  a  happy 
woman  talking  to  two  happy  men,  the  difference 
in  age  forgotten.     Such  a  magic  god  is  laughter. 

And  before  an  hour  was  over  Miss  Mason  felt 
that  she  knew  all  about  them.  Not  the  things 
in  which  some  people  consider  the  knowledge  of 
their  fellow-men  to  consist  —  their  father's  pro- 
fession, their  mother's  family,  their  relationship 
to  various  grandees,  the  towns  in  which  they  have 
lived,  the  schools  at  which  they  have  been 
educated,  the  number  of  their  brothers  and  their 
sisters,  all  of  which,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
are  pure  accidents,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  man  himself. 

It  was  none  of  these  things  Miss  Mason  learnt. 
She  found  out  that  Barnabas  had  a  universal 
love  for  nature  and  his  fellow-men,  in  fact,  for 
everything    alive;    and    that    his    heart    was    as 


Visitors  91 

sunny  as  his  laugh.  And  that  Dan's  rather  gruff 
manner  hid  a  heart  as  tender  as  a  woman's. 
There  were  a  thousand  minor  characteristics  she 
would  discover  by  and  by,  but  these  were  the 
salient  facts,  and  showed  the  true  man. 

When  they  said  good-bye  it  was  with  a  promise 
from  her  to  visit  their  studios,  and  with  an 
assurance  from  them  that  the  other  four  men 
were  going  to  call  on  her. 

They  did  —  Jasper  Merton  the  next  day  alone ; 
Paul,  Alan,  and  Michael  on  the  Tuesday.  Barna- 
bas and  Dan  had  broken  the  ice  for  her,  and  Miss 
Mason  received  them  with  little  trepidation. 
Having  come  once  they  came  again. 

And  not  one  of  them  guessed  in  what  a  curious 
way  the  influence  of  the  quaint  old  lady  was  to 
be  woven  into  the  lives  of  at  least  three  of  them. 
For  the  Three  Fates,  who  sit  all  day  long  spinning 
in  three  great  black  chairs,  are  strange  and 
ancient  dames,  and  they  saw  in  Miss  Mason  a 
kindred  spirit.  In  fact,  they  laughed  to  think 
of  her  likeness  to  them  as  she  sat  in  the  carved 
oak  chair  in  her  studio  with  her  knitting  in  her 
hands. 

And  Miss  Mason  took  one  and  all  of  the  six 
artists  of  the  courtyard  to  her  heart  and  loved 
them  spontaneously  as  a  mother  loves  her  sons. 
But  Jasper  she  guessed  was  unhappy,  and  she 
was  sorry  for  him,  and  she  was  a  tiny  bit  afraid 
of  Michael's  tongue  and  Alan  she  did  not  quite 


92  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

understand,  and  Paul  she  was  as  proud  of  as  if  he 
were  truly  her  son,  and  Dan  gave  her  a  delightful 
feeling  of  being  protected,  he  was  so  big,  but 
Barnabas  —  though  she  loved  them  all  —  took  the 
first  place  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   CASA  DI   CORLEONE 

4C/^HRISTOPHER,  darling,"  said  the 
V«>l  Duchessa  di  Corleone  in  honeyed  accents, 
"  I  want  you  to  find  an  artist  for  me." 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  Christopher.  "  Where 
did  you  lose  him?  " 

"  My  dear  Christopher,"  said  the  Duchessa, 
"  he  is  not  lost,  because  he  has  never  been  found. 
You  are  to  find  him  —  a  pleasant,  clever,  in- 
teresting artist." 

She  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  of  her 
house  on  the  Embankment.  The  windows  looked 
on  to  the  river  which  she  loved.  The  room  was 
full  of  flowers  which  she  also  loved.  She  ar- 
ranged them  herself  in  a  room  off  the  dining- 
room,  and  carried  them  upstairs  in  her  arms 
like  children.  Every  one  who  loves  and  arranges 
flowers  knows  that  in  their  transit  from  one 
place  to  another  the  whole  carefully-careless 
effect  of  their  arrangement  may  be  spoiled. 
Therefore  from  the  moment  of  entering  the 
strings  that  tied  the  great  bundles  fresh  from 
Covent  Garden,  to  the  moment  of  placing  the 
vases    in    the    drawing-room,    no    hand    but    the 

93 


94  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Duchessa's  touched  the  flowers.  And  there  was 
no  flower  in  existence  whose  colour  could  jar  in 
the  room  which  was  a  harmony  in  pale  lavender. 
To  have  to  exclude  a  flower  on  account  of  its 
colour  would  have  been  to  Sara  di  Corleone  like 
shutting  the  door  on  a  child  because  its  face 
was  ugly.  And  being  the  very  essence  of  woman- 
hood she  could  have  done  neither. 

"  And  when  the  artist  is  found,"  queried 
Christopher,  "may  I  ask  what  are  your  intentions 
towards  him?  I  have  a  conscience,  Sara,  though 
you  may  not  realize  the  fact,  and  if  you  wish  to 
inmesh  the  young  man  in  your  silken  toils 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  wriggle, 
then  I  fear  duty  will  oblige  me  to  refrain  from 
helping  you  in  your  search." 

Sara  smiled.  "  I  want  him,"  she  said,  "  to 
paint  my  portrait." 

"  It  sounds  dangerous  —  for  the  artist,"  said 
Christopher.  "  May  I  further  ask  to  whom  the 
portrait  is  to  be  presented  ?  " 

"  To  the  Casa  di  Corleone  on  the  banks  of 
Lake  Como,"  said  Sara  quietly. 

Christopher  looked  enquiring. 

"  You  have  never  seen  the  place,"  said  Sara, 
"  but  I  have  told  you  about  it." 

"  You  have,"  said  Christopher. 

"  One  day,"  pursued  Sara,  "  you  must  come 
with  me  to  see  it.  Then  I  think  you  will  under- 
stand.    I  want  you  to  see  the  courtyard  with  its 


The  Casa  di  Corleone  95 

orange  trees  and  fountains,  the  little  naked 
marble  fauns  and  the  nymphs  who  stand  among 
them  glistening  in  the  sunlight.  I  want  you  to 
see  the  rooms  full  of  shadows  and  great  patches 
of  sunshine;  and  the  gallery  with  its  pictured 
men  and  women  of  the  house  of  Corleone,  the 
dark-eyed  haughty  women  —  beauties  every  one 
of  them  —  the  gay  young  men  and  the  courtly 
old  ones.     I  want  my  portrait  to  be  among  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Christopher. 

"  It  isn't  conceit,"  said  Sara.  "  At  least  I  don't 
think  it  is.  I  love  that  place,  Christopher.  It 
seems  as  if  it  belongs  to  me  —  had  always  belonged 
to  me;  I  mean,  long  before  I  new  Giuseppe.  I 
want  to  think  that  in  the  years  to  come  my 
picture  will  be  hanging  there,  looking  down  into 
the  old  hall,  and  that  when  the  door  is  open  I 
shall  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  courtyard  bathed  in 
sunlight,  see  the  gleam  of  golden  oranges  and 
white  marble  figures,  and  hear  the  plashing  of 
the  fountain.    It's  just  a  fancy." 

"A  fancy,"  said  Christopher,  with  a  little 
gesture,  "  as  charming  as  yourself." 

Sara  laughed.  "  Christopher,  I  love  you.  And 
you  ought  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  or,  better  still,  at  the  Court  of  France." 

"  I  appreciate  your  affection,"  said  Christopher. 
"  One  day  when  we  are  both  in  a  mad  mood  we 
will  run  away  together,  and  pick  oranges  from 
the  trees  in  the  courtyard  of  Casa  di  Corleone. 


96  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

And  we  will  play  at  ball  with  them  across  the 
fountain  —  golden  balls  tossed  through  a  shower 
of  silver.     The  idea  appeals  to  me." 

"  I  am  glad  Casa  di  Corleone  is  mine,"  said 
Sara,  "  though  mine  with  reservations." 

"There  was  no  entail  on  the  estate?"  asked 
Christopher. 

"  No ;  I  don't  understand  the  ins  and  outs  of 
the  matter,  but  it  was  my  husband's  to  do  with 
as  he  pleased." 

"  It  was  thoughtful  of  the  Duca  to  leave  it  to 
you,"  said  Christopher.  "  He  might  have  turned 
it  into  a  home  for  stray  dogs.  There  are  a  good 
many  in  Italy,  aren't  there  ?  " 

Sara  had  scarcely  heard  him. 

"  I  liked  Giuseppe,"  she  said  pensively.  "  But," 
she  added,  "  better  when  he  was  alive.  I  feel 
slightly  irritable  now  when  I  think  of  him.  I 
dislike  feeling  irritable.  It  is  a  prickly  sensation 
and  doesn't  suit  me." 

"  The  will  ?  "  asked  Christopher. 

"  Exactly.     The  will." 

"  But,"  asked  Christopher,  "  you  are  not 
thinking  of  again  entering  the  holy  bonds  of 
matrimony  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  Sara  assured  him,  "  is  further 
from  my  thoughts.  But  —  if  I  wanted  to!  — 
Think  of  it,  Christopher!  I  lose  every  centesimo 
—  every  single  centesimo  and  Casa   di   Corleone. 


The  Casa  di  Corleone  97 

Fancy  parting  with  it!  Besides,  there  is  that 
ridiculous  letter." 

She  looked  at  him,   mock-tragedy   in  her  eyes. 

"  I  never  heard  of  any  letter,"  said  Christo- 
pher. 

"Didn't  you?"  she  asked.  "It  was  almost 
the  most  provoking  thing  Giuseppe  did.  It 
roused  my  curiosity  —  I  am  curious,  Christopher  — 
with  one  hand,  and  took  away  every  possibility 
of  my  satisfying  it  with  the  other.  I  can  quote 
the  last  phrases  of  the  will  verbatim." 

She  leant  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  and  spoke  slowly. 

"  '  And  I  further  decree  that  if  my  wife  Sara 
Mary  di  Corleone,  nee  de  Courcy,  shall  again  enter 
the  married  state,  that  she  shall  immediately 
forfeit  all  the  money  and  estates  herein  willed 
to  her,  and  shall  have  no  further  claim  upon  them 
whatsoever.  And  that  they  shall,  in  the  case  of 
her  marriage,  pass  into  the  possession  of  my 
nephew,  Antonio  di  Corleone.  And  I  leave  in 
the  hands  of  my  executors  —  before  herein  named 
—  a  letter,  sealed  and  addressed  to  my  wife  the 
above  Sara  Mary  di  Corleone,  nee  de  Courcy, 
which  letter,  in  the  event  of  her  marriage,  shall 
be  given  into  her  hands  one  hour  precisely  after 
the  ceremony  has  taken  place.  In  the  event  of 
her  demise  without  re-marriage,  the  said  letter 
shall    be    destroyed    unopened    by    and     in    the 


98  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

presence  of  the  executors  above-named.  Written 
by  me  this  fourteenth  day  of  January,"  etc.,  etc. 

Sara  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up  again. 

"  It  was  all  signed  and  witnessed  just  a  year 
before  he  died.  It's  all  horribly  correct.  Fixed 
up  as  firmly  as  yards  of  red  tape  can  tie  it.  And 
if  I  marry  I  lose  every  centesimo  and  my  beloved 
Casa  di  Corleone,  and  if  I  don't  marry  I  shall 
never  see  the  inside  of  that  letter.  Did  you  ever 
know  such  a  trying  situation  for  a  luxury-loving 
and  curious  woman  in  your  life?" 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Christopher,  "  that  the 
curiosity  does  not  trouble  you  greatly." 

"  It  does  not,"  she  confessed.  "  But  the 
will!  You  must  allow  that  is  annoying.  It  puts 
my  mind  and  my  affections  in  a  kind  of  mental 
strait- jacket.  Every  time  I  see  a  charming 
man " 

"  Me,  for  instance,"  said  Christopher. 

"  No,  mercifully  not  you,"  said  Sara.  "  We 
are  one  of  the  few  exceptions  that  prove  the 
generally  accepted  rule  of  the  non-existence  of 
platonic  friendship  between  men  and  women. 
You  are  the  most  delightful  combination  of 
friend  and  father-confessor  that  ever  existed, 
without  —  Heaven  be  praised  —  a  trace  of  the 
lover.     Where   was   I    before   you    interrupted  ? " 

"  Looking  at  a  charming  man,"  said  Chris- 
topher. 

"  Oh,   yes.     Whenever   I   see  a  charming  man 


The  Casa  di  Corleone  99 

I  have  to  tell  myself  to  be  careful,  to  run  no  risk 
of  my  heart  getting  in  the  smallest  degree 
involved.  I  call  up  mental  pictures  of  coffers 
upon  coffers  —  thousands  of  them  —  crammed  with 
centesimi.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  see  the  courtyard, 
the  oranges,  and  the  marble  fauns,  then  I  open 
them  and  look  at  the  charming  man  and  feel 
more  secure.  But  I  daren't  run  the  tiniest  risk 
for  fear  of  the  consequences.  I  can't — "  she 
almost  wailed  the  words,  "  I  can't  even  flirt." 

"As  your  father-confessor,"  said  Christopher, 
"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  But  think,"  she  protested,  "  what  I  lose." 

"  I  think,"  said  Christopher,  "  what  the  man 
would  lose,  and  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  him." 

"  You're  very  unsympathetic,"  said  Sara. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  very  sympathetic  — 
towards  the  man,  who,  but  for  the  late  Duca's 
will,  might  be  wriggling,  as  I  said  before,  in  your 
silken  toils." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Christopher,"  said  Sara,  suddenly  and  quite 
seriously,  "  do  you  think  I  shall  ever  marry 
again  ?  " 

"  I  most  certainly  hope  you  will,"  replied 
Christopher. 

"And  lose  Casa  di  Corleone  and  the  coffers  of 
centesimi !  "  she  exclaimed.  Then  again  she  was 
back  to  the  serious  mood.  "  Why  do  you  hope 
so,  Christopher  ?  " 


ioo  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

For  a  moment  Christopher  was  silent.  Then 
he  spoke. 

"  Because,  my  dear,  I  know  you  and  your 
capabilities.  One  day  you  will  realize  the  gift 
you  have  in  your  possession,  and  in  giving  it  away 
you  will  be  one  of  the  happiest  women  on  God's 
earth." 

She  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  mused.  "  I  didn't  give  very 
much  to  Giuseppe." 

"  You  liked  him,"  smiled  Christopher. 

"  He  was  a  dear,"  said  Sara.  "  He  was  extraor- 
dinarily considerate,  and  we  were  always  beautifully 
polite  to  each  other.     But " 

"Exactly,"  said  Christopher.     "But One 

day  a  force  will  take  you  prisoner.  Gifts  will  be 
showered  on  you,  and  you  will  shower  gifts,  and 
that  little  word  of  three  letters,  which  stands  for 
so  much,  will  have  no  place  in  your  vocabu- 
lary." 

"  And  I  shall  give  up  everything?  "  she  queried 
below  her  breath. 

"  You  will  give  up  everything,  because  you 
will  have  gained  everything,"  he  said. 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this?  "  she  asked. 

Christopher  lifted  his  shoulders  the  tiniest 
fraction. 

"  There  is  some  knowledge,"  he  said,  "  which 
is  born  in  one,  and  of  which  one  need  no  experi- 
ence   in    this    incarnation.     Probably    I    brought 


The  Casa  di  Corleone  101 

mine  with  me  from  the  experience  of  ages  long 

—  » 
ago. 

Again  there  was  a  silence. 

Outside  there  was  a  clack  of  horses'  hoofs,  the 
roll  of  carriages,  the  hoot  of  taxis,  all  the  sounds 
of  London  to  which  one  grows  so  accustomed 
that  one  hears  them  even  less  than  one  hears  the 
humming  of  insects  in  a  sunny  garden.  And 
away  below  the  window  was  the  river,  gliding 
grey  and  noiseless  to  the  sea. 

It  was  a  November  day  with  a  hint  of  fog  in 
the  atmosphere.  A  fire  was  burning  in  the  room 
in  which  the  two  were  sitting,  and  great  yellow 
chrysanthemums  like  patches  of  sunlight  were  in 
bowls  set  on  the  tables. 

And  in  the  silence  the  woman  was  looking 
almost  for  the  first  time  into  her  heart  with  a 
kind  of  wonder  for  what  she  might  find  hidden 
there.  And  the  man,  whose  nature  was  one  of 
queer  self-analysis,  was  marvelling  that  his  feeling 
towards  the  woman  near  him  held  nothing  but 
strong  affection  and  a  curious  interest  in  her 
vivid  and  unusual  personality.  Perhaps  the  cause 
lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had  known  her  from  child- 
hood, and  seen  her  gradual  development.  She 
had  never  flashed  unexpected  and  meteor-like 
across  his  path. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up  at  him  with  one  of  her 
individual  smiles  —  a  smile  that  lit  up  her  eyes 
before  it  found  its  way  to  her  lips. 


102  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  We  have  wandered  a  long  way  from  my 
request,"  she  said. 

"  To  find  an  artist  for  you  ?  "  said  Christopher. 
"  Oh,  I  know  a  man." 

"Yes?"  she  asked,  all  interest.  "What  is 
he  like?" 

"  Clever,"  said  Christopher,  "  pleasant,  and  — 
yes,  I  think  you'll  find  him  interesting.  I  think 
those  were  your  three  requirements." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  His  name,"  said  Christopher,  "  is  Paul 
Treherne,  and  he  lives  at  a  studio  about  ten 
minutes'  walk  from  here." 

"  Paul  Treherne,"  she  said  slowly,  dwelling  on 
the  words.  "  I  like  that  name.  Is  he  as  nice  as 
his  name  ?  " 

"  I  shall  leave  you  to  judge,"  replied  Chris- 
topher. 

"  You  had  better  bring  him  to  see  me,"  she 
said.  "  To-morrow  at  tea-time  will  do.  You 
can  ring  me  up  in  the  morning  and  tell  me  if  he 
is  coming." 

"  Very  well."  He  glanced  towards  the  clock 
on  the  mantelpiece,  a  beautiful  little  French  clock. 
The  hands  pointed  to  half -past  three. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "  I've  an  appointment 
at  my  club.  I'll  go  round  to  the  studio  first."  He 
got  up  from  his  chair. 

"  Then    you    can    telephone    from    the    club," 


The  Casa  di  Corleone  103 

said  Sara.  "  I  am  not  going  out  again  till  this 
evening." 

"  Very  well."     He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  hope  he  will  be  able  to  come,"  said  Sara. 
"  I  like  his  name." 

"  You  are  not  to  fall  in  love  with  him,"  said 
Christopher  warningly,  "or  let  him  fall  in  love 
with  you." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Sara. 

"  Remember  Casa  di  Corleone  and  the  golden 
oranges." 

Sara  smiled. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said,  "  that  one  day  I  was  to 
forget  them." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    MEETING 

THERE  comes  a  day  in  the  lives  of  some  of 
us  when  everything  appears  as  if  it  were 
pursuing  its  ordinary  and  normal  course.  We  get 
up  in  the  morning  and  go  through  the  usual 
routine  —  bath,  dressing,  breakfast,  all  the  little 
accustomed  trivialities  which  have  happened  thou- 
sands of  times  in  our  lives  already,  and  which  will 
doubtless  happen  thousands  of  times  again.  We 
feel  gay  or  dull  as  we  have  felt  thousands  of  times 
before,  and  we  think,  or  we  don't  think,  of  the 
various  occupations  that  will  go  to  make  up  our 
day,  and  we  never  guess  that  before  sunset  we 
shall  have  our  hand  on  a  door  —  a  door  that  when 
opened  is  to  lead  the  way  into  clouds  of  sorrow, 
or  gild  our  life  suddenly  with  the  radiant  light  of 
joy.  So  silently  do  the  fates  work,  so  secret  do 
they  keep  their  intentions  from  us. 

Paul  got  up  that  morning  as  usual  at  seven 
o'clock.  He  had  his  usual  cold  bath,  which  most 
people  would  have  found  uncomfortably  chilly  on 
a  November  morning,  but  in  which  Paul  found 
merely  a  refreshing  sting.     He  rubbed  himself  dry 

104 


A  Meeting  105 

while  humming  an  air  from  "  The  Arcadians,"  and 
then  put  on  his  clothes.  He  went  into  his  studio 
and  found  his  usual  breakfast  of  coffee  and  rolls 
ready  for  him.  While  he  eat  it  he  looked  into  a 
neat  brown  pocket-book  to  refresh  his  memory  as 
to  his  engagements  for  the  day. 

A  small  girl  was  coming  to  sit  for  him  at  ten 
o'clock.  Her  name  was  Marjorie  Arnold.  She 
was  possessed  of  personality  and  a  fascinating  dim- 
ple. He  had  caught  the  personality,  but  the  dim- 
ple had  hitherto  eluded  him.  It  was  extremely 
fleeting  in  its  appearance.  He  hoped  to  catch  it 
and  place  it  on  canvas  that  morning. 

There  was  only  one  other  entry  for  the  day  — 
"4.15.  C.C."  It  meant  that  Christopher  Charl- 
ton was  coming  for  him  that  afternoon,  and  would 
take  him  to  call  on  the  Duchessa  di  Corleone,  who 
desired  to  have  her  portrait  painted. 

He  felt  a  certain  amount  of  interest  as  to  the 
Duchessa's  appearance,  but  it  was  only  an  interest 
he  had  felt  dozens  of  times  before  concerning  possi- 
ble commissions.  Christopher  had  said  she  was 
good-looking.  So  were  a  good  many  people  who 
were  no  use  to  Paul  as  subjects.  He  painted  only 
those  who  interested  him.  From  the  others  —  and 
there  were  many  —  he  politely  evaded  accepting 
commissions.  He  was  very  much  an  artist,  was 
Paul.  And  for  this  reason  partly  his  income  was 
considerably  below  the  amount  his  genius  war- 
ranted.    The   other   reason   was  that   there   were 


106  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

many  people  who  did  not  consider  his  portraits  to 
be  likenesses. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  child  appeared  with  the  nurse, 
who  was  dismissed  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
armed  with  brushes  and  palette  Paul  set  to  work 
to  catch  the  fleeting  dimple. 

The  child  —  she  was  five  years  old  —  was  in  a 
solemn  mood.  Smiles,  and  with  them  the  dimple, 
had  temporarily  vanished.  She  was  a  quaint  little 
thing  with  red  hair  and  freckles,  and  a  fascinating 
ugliness  generally  termed  the  beaute  de  diable. 

Paul  told  her  half  a  dozen  stories,  including  The 
Three  Bears,  The  Frog  Prince,  and  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling's "  Stute  Little  Fish."  But  neither  the  squeak- 
iness  of  the  little  bear,  the  faithlessness  of  the 
princess,  nor  the  sufferings  of  the  whale  when  the 
shipwrecked  mariner  danced  hornpipes  in  his  in- 
side had  any  effect  on  the  dimple. 

"  Suppose,"  said  Paul  at  last,  "  that  you  tell  me 
a  story." 

The  face  was  even  more  solemn. 

"  I  don't  know  one." 

"  Make  up  one,"  suggested  Paul. 

There  was  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  then  solemnity. 
The  flash  of  hope  Paul  had  experienced  died  away. 

"  Onst  upon  a  time,"  she  began  gravely,  "  vere 
was  a  little  dog  an'  a  little  duck.  An'  vey  grewed 
wings,  an'  vey  flewed  up  an'  up  an'  up  to  heaven 
to  God." 

There  was  a  pause  for  effect. 


A  Meeting  107 

"  What  a  height,"  said  Paul  admiringly,  watch- 
ing her  face.     "What  happened  next?" 

"  When  vey  got  vere,"  went  on  the  voice  sol- 
emnly, "  you  bet  vey  wanted  to  see  round.  But 
God  said,  '  Not  to-day,  I  guess  I'm  busy.  It's  my 
last  day  up  here.'  It  was.  'Cos  ve  next  day  — 
God  died.     Isn't  vat  a  nice  story  ?  " 

No  trace  of  a  dimple.     Paul  was  exasperated. 

"  Not  a  bit  a  nice  story,"  he  said  sternly.  "  And 
God  couldn't  die." 

She  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Well,  not  weally,  of  course.  But  ve  little  dog 
an'  ve  little  duck  had  never  seen  anybody  die,  an' 
vey  wanted  to.  So  God  showed  them."  She  was 
laughing  at  him  now  in  childish  triumph,  a  very  imp 
of  mischief. 

"  Eureka !  "  cried  Paul.  And  his  brush  flew  to 
the  canvas.  Such  are  the  trials  and  triumphs  of 
portrait  painters. 

"  Come  and  look  at  it,"  said  Paul  after  ten  min- 
utes. 

She  scrambled  down  from  the  chair  and  plat- 
form and  came  round.  A  small  mocking  face  of 
pure  wickedness  looked  at  her  from  the  canvas. 
Her  own. 

"  Do  you  see  it?  "  said  Paul,  pointing  at  it  with 
his  brush.  "  And  but  for  your  profane  little  story 
there  would  never  have  been  exactly  that  expres- 
sion on  your  face.  We  wait  for  our  moments,  we 
artists,    and    we    catch    them  —  sometimes.     And 


108  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

now,"  he  continued,  "  you  can  have  a  stick  of  choc- 
olate and  brown  your  face  up  to  the  eyebrows  with 
it.  I  have  finished  your  portrait,  and  therefore 
done  with  you.  I  don't  care  what  happens  to  you 
now." 

That  was  Paul.  During  the  time  of  painting  he 
sought  for  intimate  knowledge  of  his  subjects. 
Every  tiniest  characteristic,  every  fleeting  expres- 
sion, were  noted  and  stored  up  in  his  memory.  He 
could  almost  have  told  you  their  life  history  from 
his  minute  observation  of  faces.  He  knew  his  sub- 
jects as  few  of  their  intimate  friends  knew  them. 
He  guessed  their  hidden  secrets  with  a  power  that 
was  almost  uncanny  —  secrets  known  only  to  their 
own  souls  —  and  put  the  secrets  on  his  canvas. 
And  it  was  for  this  reason  that  many  people  did 
not  consider  the  portraits  to  be  likenesses.  He 
painted  the  real  person,  not  merely  the  mask  they 
wore  to  the  world  at  large. 

This  fact  had  been  particularly  emphasized  in 
his  portrait  of  a  certain  statesman  —  one  Lord  St. 
Aubyn.  The  statesman  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
rest  of  this  story,  but  the  incident  as  far  as  Paul  is 
concerned  is  interesting. 

St.  Aubyn  was  a  man  who  was  much  before  the 
public,  and  no  less  than  five  portraits  of  him  had 
been  commissioned  by  different  societies  as  a  token 
of  their  personal  gratitude.  Four  of  these,  but  for 
the  individuality  of  technique,  might  have  been  rep- 


A  Meeting  109 

licas  one  of  the  other,  and  gave  instant  satisfaction 
alike  to  donors  and  public. 

They  showed  a  man  with  regular  features  and 
deep-set  eyes,  leaning  to  the  accepted  military  type,, 
a  resolute  mouth,  and  a  certain  air  of  distinction 
and  command.  One  felt  that  a  sculptor  of  the 
"  classic  convention "  would  have  expressed  the 
type  even  more  admirably.  Reserve  was  there,  but 
with  no  hint  of  mystery  or  evasion;  intellectuality, 
but  little  imagination. 

The  fifth  portrait  by  Paul  was,  one  would  have 
said,  of  another  man.  It  was  a  picture  that  seemed 
alive  with  a  strange  and  slightly  repellent  mag- 
netism, for  the  eyes  smiled  at  a  stranger  with  a 
baffling  mockery ;  they  seemed  to  invite  and  yet  defy 
his  judgment  —  to  taunt  him  with  his  impotence 
and  read  the  soul  behind  them. 

It  had  been  received  on  exhibition  with  a  storm 
of  outspoken  criticism;  while  the  Benevolent 
Trustees  who  had  commissioned  it,  though  refrain- 
ing from  audible  dissatisfaction,  had  maintained  so 
eloquent  a  silence  at  their  private  view,  glancing  at 
each  other  with  liftings  of  eyebrows  and  pursing  of 
lips,  that  Paul  had  flung  round  upon  them  and  re- 
lieved their  embarrassment  by  declaring  the  con- 
tract to  be  null  and  void.  No  reasons  were  asked 
for  or  given ;  the  action  was  taken  as  a  tacit  admis- 
sion of  failure.  Yet  Paul  himself  had  seemed  not 
ill-satisfied,    and   had    met   the   chaff   which    had 


no  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

greeted  him  from  many  of  his  circle  with  equanim- 
ity. 

Landor,  one  of  the  circle,  whose  portrait  of  St. 
Aubyn  in  the  previous  Academy  had  been  hailed 
as  a  most  masterly  piece  of  work,  had  ventured  a 
serious  protest. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  had  said  one  evening, 
"you're  letting  your  imagination  play  tricks  with 
you.  It's  becoming  an  absolute  disease.  I  made 
a  most  careful  study  of  the  man  —  made  him  give 
me  innumerable  sittings,  and  I  pledge  you  my  word 
that  I  put  everything  into  the  face  that  I  could  find. 
You  had  three  sittings,  and  God  only  knows  what 
you've  put  there." 

Paul  had  smoked  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"  Perhaps  you've  hit  it,"  he  had  said.  "  I've 
nothing  to  say  against  your  '  Portrait  of  a  rising 
Statesman.'  It's  a  fine  piece  of  work.  But  you 
know  all  about  the  Factories  Sanitation  Amend- 
ment Act,  and  I  can  read  Sub-section  Ten  in  your 
handling  of  the  chin.  Now  I  don't  read  the  papers, 
and  I  know  nothing  of  the  man.  I  tried  to  get  at 
him  and  he  shut  the  door  in  my  face.  Yet  some- 
thing came  through  the  keyhole  and  the  cracks  by 
the  hinges,  and  I  have  painted  that.  And,  as  you 
say,  God  only  knows  what  I've  put  in  his  face;  I 
don't.  And  in  spite  of  that  —  or  perhaps  because 
of  it  —  what  I've  put  there  happens  to  be  the 
truth." 


A  Meeting  in 

"But  what  have  you  done  with  the  picture?" 
Landor  had  asked.  "  The  Benevolent  refused  it, 
didn't  they?" 

"  Now  you're  getting  coarse,"  had  been  Paul's 
reply.     "  We  agreed  to  differ  as  to  its  suitability." 

"  Then  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  In  St.  Aubyn's  study,  I  believe,"  had  been  the 
careless  reply. 

"He  bought  it,  then?" 

"  I  gave  it  to  him." 

Landor  had  looked  at  Paul,  and  had  refrained 
from  putting  further  questions.  There  had  been 
an  expression  in  Paul's  face  which  might  have  made 
them  appear  an  impertinence. 

The  gift  of  the  picture  had  come  about  in  rather 
a  curious  way. 

Paul  never  let  his  sitters  see  unfinished  work, 
and  St.  Aubyn  had  left  town  immediately  after  the 
third  sitting,  and  had  not  returned  till  the  exhibi- 
tion was  over.  Then  he  had  gone  to  Paul's  studio 
and  had  seen  the  picture.  He  had  made  one  re- 
mark, but  that  was  eloquent. 

"How  did  you  find  out?"  he  had  said. 

Paul  had  looked  at  him,  and  the  next  moment 
the  mask  had  been  on  again,  and  he  had  been  talk- 
ing business. 

"  You've  sold  this  portrait,  haven't  you  ? "  he 
had  asked. 

"Unfortunately   not,"    Paul   had   replied.     "It 


H2  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

seems  to  give  offence  to  your  numerous  admirers." 

"  Then,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  should  like  to 
become  the  purchaser,"  had  been  the  reply. 

Paul  had  looked  at  him. 

"  It's  not  for  sale,"  he  had  said. 

St.  Aubyn  had  bowed  and  taken  up  his  hat  with 
out  so  much  as  looking  disappointed. 

"  But  I'll  send  it  round  to  your  house  to-mor- 
row," Paul  had  said. 

St.  Aubyn  had  refused.  He  had  talked  polite 
platitudes  regarding  the  value  of  the  work. 

"  Now  you're  talking  Stock  Exchange,"  Paul  had 
told  him.  "  The  latest  marked  quotation  is  abso- 
lutely nil.     No  one  will  look  at  it.     As  a  piece  of 

property  it  is  worthless.     As  a  revelation "  he 

had  stopped. 

St.  Aubyn  had  smiled.  "  I  deal  in  revelations 
—  professionally,"  he  said. 

That  had  told  Paul  the  secret  he  had  already 
guessed. 

"  What  a  head-line  for  the  evening  papers," 
he  had  said  whimsically.  "  *  A  Peer's  Secret ! 
Threatened  Exposure  by  Eminent  Artist ! '  But 
I'm  not  a  blackmailer,  and  I  don't  take  hush-money. 
The  picture  is  yours  or  no  one's." 

They  had  argued  a  little  more.  At  last  St. 
Aubyn  had  taken  it. 

"  And  about  the  inscription  ? "  It  had  been 
Paul's     parting     shot.     "  From     a     painter     to 

n ?" 


A  Meeting  113 

St.  Aubyn  had  shaken  his  head. 

"  Experience  is  against  endorsements,  however 
cryptic,  on  secret  documents,"  he  had  said. 
"  Sooner  or  later  the  cipher  is  sure  to  be  read." 

And  he  had  gone  away,  leaving  Paul  the  sole 
possessor  of  his  secret,  a  secret  which  Paul  had 
summed  up  in  one  brief  sentence  addressed  to  a 
Chinese  idol  on  his  mantelpiece. 

"  The  man,  God  help  him,  is  a  poet." 

A  month  later  he  had  received  a  small  volume  of 
poems  addressed  in  a  hand  in  which  he  had  already 
received  three  short  notes  agreeing  to  sittings. 
The  verses  —  true  poetry  —  were  written  under  a 
nom  de  plume.  What  St.  Aubyn's  reason  was  for 
keeping  his  poetical  talent  a  secret  from  the  world 
Paul  never  knew.  The  volume  came  to  him  in  si- 
lence from  the  author;  he  respected  the  silence, 
attempting  no  word  of  thanks.  And  the  secret  his 
insight  had  wrested  from  the  man  went  with  other 
secrets  somewhere  away  in  the  hidden  recesses  of 
his  mind,  while  his  work  alone  absorbed  him. 

He  never  pursued  his  knowledge  of  men  and 
women  further.  It  sufficed  —  or  seemed  to  suffice 
him  —  to  portray  that  knowledge  on  canvas,  and 
leave  it  for  those  to  read  who  had  the  heart  to  do 
so.  As  he  had  passed  before  among  men  and 
women  of  varied  nationalities,  making  no  real 
friends,  so  he  passed  now  among  varied  types, 
noting  them,  painting  them,  and  dismissing  them, 
still  making  no  friend.     The  lonely  reserve  he  had 


ii4  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

gained  in  his  wanderings  pursued  him  now.  He 
could  not  throw  it  off.  Barnabas  and  Dan  were 
nearer  true  friendship  with  him  than  any,  and  more 
because  they  had  silently  accepted  him  for  their 
friend  than  from  any  advance  on  his  part.  It 
seemed  that  he  could  make  none.  The  solitude  of 
the  plains,  the  loneliness  of  big  spaces,  seemed  to 
have  claimed  his  spirit. 

And  so  he  painted  portraits,  from  statesmen  to 
small  girls,  gaining  intimate  knowledge  of  them, 
while  no  one  yet  had  learnt  to  know  the  real  Paul. 

It  was  very  much  later  in  the  day,  long  after 
Majorie  had  departed  led  by  an  indignant  nurse 
muttering  to  herself  regarding  the  carelessness  of 
"them  artists,"  for  not  only  Majorie's  face,  but 
her  best  white  dress  was  covered  with  various 
smears  of  brown  chocolate  —  it  was  long  after  this 
that  Paul  looked  once  more  at  his  pocket-book.  He 
looked  at  it  to  make  sure  that  the  hour  Christopher 
would  arrive  for  him  was  four-fifteen,  and  not 
four  o'clock.  The  former  was  there  plainly  in- 
scribed, written  by  Paul  with  a  small  gold  pencil. 

There  were  just  two  entries  for  that  day  —  Fri- 
day, November  27th,  "  M.A.  10  o'clock "  and 
"4.15  o'clock.  C.C."  Little  did  Paul  think  as  he 
looked  at  it  that  he  would  treasure  that  small  page 
as  one  would  treasure  one's  passage  to  heaven. 

Christopher  arrived  at  the  studio  punctually  to 
the  second,  and  found  Paul  ready  for  him.     The 


A  Meeting  115 

two  turned  into  Oakley  Street  and  came  down  to- 
wards the  Embankment.  It  was  already  past  sun- 
set, and  the  houses  and  river  were  shrouded  in  a 
soft  mist.  They  reached  the  house  near  Swan 
Walk  and  went  up  the  steps. 

"  The  Duchessa  di  Corleone  at  home  ?  "  asked 
Christopher  of  the  footman  who  opened  the  door. 

"  Will  you  come  this  way,  sir,"  was  the  answer, 
and  he  led  them  up  the  wide  shallow  stairs.  He 
threw  open  a  door. 

Paul  saw  a  room  of  pale  lavenders,  with  the 
chrysanthemums  like  patches  of  sunlight.  A 
woman  rose  from  a  chair  by  the  fire  and  came  for- 
ward to  greet  them.  The  window  was  behind  her 
as  she  came  forward,  and  the  room  being  in  twilight 
he  could  not  see  her  face  distinctly,  but  he  saw  the 
outlines  of  her  graceful  figure,  and  caught  the  glint 
of  her  red-brown  hair. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  It  is  very  charming  of  you  to  come  and  see  me, 
Mr.  Treherne,"  she  said.     "  Pietro,  the  lights." 

Paul  heard  the  sound  of  three  or  four  tiny  click- 
ings  near  the  door,  and  the  room  became  full  of  a 
soft  mellow  light.  Had  the  light  been  a  trifle 
brighter,  or  her  voice  a  shade  less  natural,  the  whole 
thing  might  have  verged  on  the  theatrical.  As  it 
was,  it  was  simply  a  revelation  to  Paul  as,  for  the 
first  time,  he  saw  the  Duchessa  di  Corleone. 

She  stood  before  him  smiling  —  a  smile  that  just 
lit  up  her  eyes  and  trembled  on  her  mouth.     He 


n6  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

saw  that  her  skin  was  smooth  like  ivory,  that  her 
lips  were  crimson  like  wine  beneath  oiled  silk,  that 
her  hair  was  the  colour  of  a  chestnut  newly  wrested 
from  its  sheath. 

All  this  Paul  saw  almost  without  realizing  it. 
For  suddenly  his  heart  heard  a  tune  —  one  that  is 
played  silently  throughout  the  ages,  and  to  most  of 
us  the  hearing  of  the  tune  comes  slowly  and  grad- 
ually, a  note  at  a  time.  But  to  a  few  —  as  to  Paul 
—  it  comes  suddenly,  played  in  full  melody.  He 
felt  vaguely  that  he  had  been  waiting  for  that  tune 
all  his  life,  listening  for  it  on  the  plains,  in  the  si- 
lence of  the  night  under  the  stars. 

But  he  merely  bowed  and  said  in  the  most  ordi- 
nary and  conventional  voice  in  the  world: 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  ask  me  to  come 
and  see  you." 

For  Paul  did  not  yet  know  the  meaning  of  the 
tune.  In  his  lonely  life  he  had  never  before  even 
heard  an  imitation  of  it.  And  because  the  music 
was  very  strange  and  very  beautiful  he  listened  to 
it  with  something  like  awe. 

And  then  he  heard  Christopher's  voice. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you,  Sara,  that  Mr. 
Treherne  is  an  artist  of  strange  moods,  and  that 
sometimes  he  refuses  —  in  the  most  polite  and  dip- 
lomatic way,  of  course  —  to  accept  commissions." 

The  Duchessa  looked  at  Paul. 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Treherne  will  refuse  to  paint 
my  portrait.     At  least  I  hope  not." 


A  Meeting  117 

"  I  shall  be  honoured  to  paint  it,"  Paul  replied. 

The  words  were  conventional.  Since  he  in- 
tended to  accept  the  commission  it  was  very  nearly 
the  only  phrase  he  could  have  used,  yet  there  was 
something  in  his  utterance  of  the  words  that  seemed 
just  to  lift  them  from  the  commonplace.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  direct  way  in  which  he  spoke  them. 
Paul  had  generally  a  very  direct  manner  of  speech. 

Anyhow,  Sara  glanced  at  him,  and  an  indefinable 
something  in  his  eyes  caused  an  odd  little  movement 
in  her  heart.  The  room  in  which  they  were  sitting 
seemed  suddenly  brighter,  the  chrysanthemums  a 
more  beautiful  colour,  the  logs  on  the  fire  more 
than  usually  crackly  and  pleasant.  For  so  it  is 
that  two  people  who  are  complete  strangers  to  each 
other  sometimes  meet,  and  in  some  subtle  way,  and 
without  realizing  it  at  the  time,  the  whole  world 
has  altered  for  them.  And  the  invisible  gods 
laughed  softly,  and  the  grim  old  fates  smiled,  and 
drew  two  threads  of  their  weaving,  which  had 
hitherto  had  nothing  to  do  with  each  other,  a  little 
closer  together. 

Before  Paul  left  the  house  on  the  Embankment 
it  was  arranged  that  the  Duchessa  should  come  to 
his  studio  the  following  morning  at  eleven  o'clock 
for  her  first  sitting. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PRINCESS  PIPPA  AWAKES 

MISS  MASON  threw  a  large  shovelful  of  coal 
on  to  the  fire,  then  turned  to  Barnabas,  who 
was  sitting  astride  on  a  chair,  his  arms  resting  on 
its  back,  and  looking  at  her  with  a  slight  twinkle 
of  amusement  in  his  eyes. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  smile,  Barnabas," 
she  said  energetically,  "  but  if  my  model  hadn't 
failed  me,  do  you  suppose  for  one  moment  that  I 
should  allow  you  to  be  sitting  there  wasting  my 
morning,   and   incidentally  wasting  your  own  ? " 

"  No  waste,  dear  Aunt  Olive,"  said  Barnabas 
imperturbably.  He  had  calmly  given  her  the  title 
one  day,  and  it  had  been  adopted  by  the  five  other 
artists  of  the  courtyard.  It  had  pleased  Miss  Ma- 
son immensely,  though  she  occasionally  pretended 
to  look  upon  it  as  an  impertinence.  "  No  waste, 
dear  Aunt  Olive.  The  enormous  benefit  I  in- 
variably derive  from  your  conversation  is  of  incal- 
culably greater  advantage  to  me  than  the  time  I 
should  otherwise  spend  in  dabbing  paint  on  canvas. 
The  canvas  is  always  destroyed  at  the  end  of  two 
hours,  unless  the  subject  happens  to  be  a  commis- 

118 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  119 

sion.  Your  conversation  abides  for  ever  engraven 
on  my  memory." 

"  Barnabas,  you're  a  fool,"  retorted  Miss  Mason. 
"  Besides,  if  you  were  not  here  I  should  paint  a 
still  life." 

"  Oranges  against  a  green  or  blue  earthenware 
jar  —  I  know,"  said  Barnabas  sorrowfully.  "  Dear 
aunt,  cui  bono?  You  have  dozens  of  oranges  al- 
ready on  canvas,  to  say  nothing  of  the  blue  and 
green  jars.  You  could  paint  them  in  your  sleep. 
Why  make  another  representation  of  them  ?  " 

"  Don't  mock  at  my  work,"  said  Miss  Mason  se- 
verely. "  You  have  a  lifetime  before  you,  and 
can  afford  to  waste  mornings.  I  cannot.  Remem- 
ber my  age." 

"  I'll  try  to  do  so,  since  you  wish  it,"  returned 
Barnabas.  "  It  is,  however,  the  one  thing  I  in- 
variably forget." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  However,  if 
you  won't  go,  where  is  my  knitting?  I  can't  sit 
entirely  idle." 

She  took  a  bundle  of  white  woolwork  from  a 
side  table.  Two  steel  knitting-needles  were  stuck 
into  it.  She  sat  down  in  the  big  oak  chair  by  the 
fire,  and  in  a  moment  the  needles  were  clicking 
busily.  She  looked  more  like  one  of  the  three 
Fates  than  ever.  And  somewhere  away  in  a  back 
street  a  scrap  of  humanity  must  have  heard  the 
clicking  needles,  and  a  thread  of  white  wool  must 
have  stretched  out  invisibly  to  draw  it  towards  the 


120  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

hands  that  held  them.  Though  at  the  moment 
Miss  Mason  knitted  serenely  unconscious  of  the 
fact. 

Barnabas  watched  her  in  silence. 

"  For  the  poor?  "  he  asked  politely,  after  a  cou- 
ple of  minutes. 

"  Babies,"  said  Miss  Mason  shortly.  "  They 
get  little  enough  welcome,  poor  mites ;  but  knowing 
that  a  white  jacket  with  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  run 
through  it  is  waiting  for  them,  helps  the  mothers 
to  look  forward  to  their  advent  with  a  certain 
degree  of  pleasure.  It's  curious,  the  effect  of  little 
things." 

"  I    should    hardly    have    thought "    began 

Barnabas. 

"  Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  interrupted  Miss 
Mason.  "  You've  never  had  a  baby.  Neither  have 
I,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

She  looked  up  and  caught  Barnabas's  eyes  fixed 
on  her. 

"  Barnabas,  you're  disgraceful !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"I  never  know  what  I  say  when  I  begin  to  talk 
to  you." 

"  Therein  lies  the  charm  of  your  conversation," 
he  assured  her.     "  It  is  always  so  unpremeditated." 

"  Huh ! "  said  Miss  Mason,  and  she  returned  to 
her  knitting. 

She  looked  exactly  the  same  as  she  had  looked 
six  months  previously,  except  that  there  was  a  new 
and  curious  radiance  about  her  eyes.     They  looked 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  121 

as  if  they  were  absorbing  happiness,  and  giving  it 
forth  again  in  actual  light.  Also  her  black  dress 
had  given  place  to  a  grey  one. 

The  style  being  unprocurable  at  any  modern 
shop,  she  had  engaged  a  sewing-woman  to  make  it 
for  her.  The  woman  was  firmly  persuaded  that 
Miss  Mason  was  quite  mad,  but  finding  her  an  ex- 
tremely generous  customer,  she  was  perfectly  ready 
to  seam  grey  cashmere  into  any  pattern  Miss  Ma- 
son might  require.  She  had  once  gone  so  far  as 
to  announce  that  the  costume  was  picturesque. 
Something  in  her  manner  as  she  made  the  state- 
ment had  annoyed  Miss  Mason. 

"Picturesque!  Nothing  of  the  kind!"  Miss 
Mason  had  retorted.  "  It  is  serviceable  and  com- 
fortable, and  suited  to  a  woman  of  my  age.  Some 
women  of  sixty  make  fools  of  themselves  in  a 
couple  of  yards  of  silk  nineteen  inches  wide.  I 
make  a  fool  of  myself  in  twelve  yards  of  cashmere 
forty  inches  wide.  That's  all  the  difference.  But 
I  prefer  my  own  folly."  And  the  sewing- woman 
had  retired  crestfallen. 

"  I  saw  Paul  yesterday,"  remarked  Barnabas 
after  a  moment. 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Miss  Mason  succinctly. 

"  So  do  I,"  returned  Barnabas.  "  He  is  so  re- 
freshingly clean.  He  always  looks  as  if  he  had 
just  completed  a  toilette  in  which  baths,  aromatic 
soap,  and  hair-brushes  had  played  an  important 
part." 


122  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Yet  he  manages  to  escape  looking  shiny,"  said 
Miss  Mason. 

"  We  all  take  baths,"  went  on  Barnabas  thought- 
fully; "at  least,  I  hope  so.  But  with  the  majority 
of  people  one  has  to  take  the  fact  of  their  scrupu- 
lous cleanliness  more  on  faith  than  by  sight.  With 
Paul  it  is  so  extraordinarily  apparent." 

"  What  is  he  doing  at  the  moment?  "  asked  Miss 
Mason. 

"  Painting  the  portrait  of  a  certain  Duchessa  di 
Corleone.  I  happened  to  see  the  lady  leaving  the 
studio.  She  is  remarkably  beautiful.  Paul  has 
the  devil's  own  luck.  I  have  to  spend  my  time 
painting  middle-aged  women  with  hair  groomed  by 
their  maids  till  they  look  like  barbers'  blocks,  or 
pink-cheeked  girls  with  a  perpetual  smile." 

"  Don't  paint  them  if  you  dislike  doing  it,"  said 
Miss  Mason. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Olive,  I  must." 

"  No  such  thing.  You  have  an  excellent  private 
income." 

"  I  grant  you  that.  It  is,  however,  not  the  point. 
I  am  a  portrait  painter.  It  is  my  metier.  To  be 
a  portrait  painter  one  must  paint  portraits.  The 
two  things  are  inseparable." 

"  Paint  models,  then,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
"  Choose  your  subject." 

"  It  is  not  the  same  thing,"  replied  Barnabas 
gravely.  "  A  model  who  is  paid  for  sitting  does 
not  rank  with  a  creature  who  pays  one  to  immor- 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  123 

talize  their  material  features  on  canvas.  To  say  I 
have  a  model  coming  to  sit  for  me  this  morning  is 
nothing.  To  say  the  Lady  Mayoress  of  So-and-So 
comes  to  my  study  at  eleven  o'clock  this  morning  is 
quite  another  matter.  At  first  your  fellow-artists 
say,  '  Pure  swank  on  his  part.'  But  when  eleven 
o'clock  arrives,  and  with  it  the  Lady  Mayoress  in 
a  gold  coach  with  four  horses  and  velvet-breeched 
lackeys  with  cocked  hats  —  why,  then  the  whole 
thing  assumes  totally  different  proportions.  I  am 
regarded  in  a  new  light.  I  become  a  person  of  im- 
portance among  my  fellow-men.  I  gaze  upon  a 
double  chin,  boot-button  eyes,  and  a  smile  that  won't 
come  off,  enduring  mental  torture  thereby,  in  order 
that  later  I  may  strut  from  my  studio  with  an  air  of 
swagger,  and  hear  myself  spoken  of  as  '  John  Kirby, 
the  portrait  painter.'  And  once  more  I  ask  you, 
how  can  one  attain  to  the  distinction  of  portrait 
painter  if  one  does  not  paint  portraits?" 

"  Barnabas,  you're  ridiculous,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
"  You  talk  of  nothing  seriously,  not  even  your  art 
which  you  love.  But  if  you  could  be  serious  for 
ten  minutes,  I'd  like  to  ask  you  about  a  scheme  I 
have  in  my  mind." 

There  was  a  little  hesitancy  in  the  last  words. 
Barnabas  looked  up  quickly. 

"  I'm  attending,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  You  know,"  said  Miss  Mason  quietly,  "  that 
for  a  woman  who  spends  as  little  as  I  do  I  am  very 
rich." 


124  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Barnabas  nodded.  "  I  thought  you  must  have 
a  good  bit  of  money,"  he  said,  glancing  round  the 
studio. 

Miss  Mason  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance. 

"  That  was  rather  —  what  you  would  call  a 
splurge  —  on  my  part,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Fact 
is,  I  have  about  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  If  I  spend 
two  in  the  year  it  will  be  all  I  shall  do." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barnabas  gravely. 

"  Of  course,"  went  on  Miss  Mason,  growing 
gruffer  as  she  became  more  in  earnest,  "  I've  told 
you  how  much  I  care  for  art.  Suppose  I  inherited 
the  love  of  it  from  my  father.  See  now,  it's  little 
use  loving  it  if  one  doesn't  get  the  chance  to  work 
when  one's  young  —  I  mean  as  far  as  one's  own 
creation  is  concerned.  Get  a  lot  of  pleasure  dab- 
bing paint  on  canvas,  making  pictures  of  oranges, 
and  drawing  charcoal  heads.  But  the  time's  past 
for  me  to  do  anything  serious  in  that  line.  Glad 
you're  honest  enough  not  to  contradict  me.  Been 
thinking,  though,  that  there  must  be  others  who 
would  like  the  chance.  Care  so  much  myself,  would 
like  to  help  them."     She  stopped. 

"  A  ripping  idea,"  said  Barnabas  warmly. 

"  Thought,"  went  on  Miss  Mason,  "  that  if  five 
thousand  pounds  a  year  went  for  that  purpose  it'd 
be  something  —  give  twenty  would-be  artists  the 
chance,  anyhow.  Each  would-be  artist  to  have  an 
income  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for  five 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  125 

years  while  they  are  studying  —  longer  if  you 
thought  well.  Then  another  to  take  their  place. 
Want  them  to  be  people  who'd  really  care.  Love 
the  work.  Want  you  to  help  me.  Don't  rush  the 
matter.  If  you  can  find  the  right  people  let  me 
know.  You're  a  young  man.  Would  like  to  ap- 
point you  as  my  executor  in  the  scheme.  You 
could  carry  on  the  work.  Would  like,  though,  to 
see  it  started."  Miss  Mason  looked  anxiously  at 
Barnabas.  The  little  speech  had  cost  her  a  great 
effort.  It  was  the  outcome  of  the  thought  of  many 
weeks. 

Barnabas  met  her  look.  "  There's  nothing  I 
should  like  better  than  to  help  you  in  the  scheme," 
he  said  warmly.  "  It's  fine.  By  Jingo !  Twenty 
men  to  have  their  chance  every  five  years.  Think 
of  it!" 

"  Am  ready  to  include  women  too,"  said  Miss 
Mason,  "  as  long  as " —  she  continued,  getting 
gruffer  than  ever  — "  they  aren't  giving  up  other 
duties  to  it.  Might  find  some  women  glad  to  have 
a  chance  too.  Would  have  liked  it  myself.  You 
go  about  among  people.  Can  let  me  know  later. 
Don't  rush  it." 

"  It's  fine,"  said  Barnabas  again.  "  Aunt  Olive, 
you're  a  brick !  " 

The  boyish  compliment  brought  the  colour  to 
Miss  Mason's  cheeks. 

"  Glad  you  like  the  idea,"  she  said. 


126  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

A  sudden  gust  of  wind  tore  round  the  studio, 
and  a  torrential  shower,  half  of  sleet,  half  of  hail, 
beat  down  upon  the  skylight. 

"  Abominable  weather !  "  said  Miss  Mason,  click- 
ing her  knitting-needles  furiously.  She  did  not 
even  now  guess  how  near  to  her  the  scrap  of  hu- 
manity had  been  drawn  by  the  thread  of  white  wool. 

"  We  have  much  for  which  to  be  thankful,"  be- 
gan Barnabas  piously,  "  a  blazing  fire,  a  roof " 

His  further  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a 
knock  on  the  door. 

"  See  who  it  is,  will  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Mason. 
"  Sally  is  busy.  If  it  is  a  beggar  send  him  or  her 
away.     I  don't  encourage  them." 

Barnabas  grinned  broadly,  knowing  the  untruth 
of  the  statement.  He  heaved  himself  off  the  chair 
and  went  towards  the  door. 

There  was  a  moment's  parley.  Then  he  re- 
turned, followed  by  a  small  and  weird  figure.  Its 
sex  was  indistinguishable.  A  man's  coat  frayed 
and  torn  reached  to  the  top  of  a  pair  of  patched 
boots  many  sizes  too  large  for  the  feet  they  cov- 
ered, a  man's  slouched  hat  hid  nearly  the  whole  of 
the  face. 

"  It  says  it  is  a  model,"  announced  Barnabas. 
H  It's  language  is  a  mixture  of  French  and  broken 
English." 

Miss  Mason  let  her  knitting  fall. 

"  A  model ! "  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  the  odd 
creature. 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  127 

The  figure  in  the  old  coat  saw  the  fire.  It  made 
an  instant  dart  towards  it. 

"Ah!"  The  sigh  was  one  of  intense  satisfac- 
tion. The  hands,  hidden  by  the  frayed  coat- 
sleeves,  were  held  out  towards  the  leaping  flames. 

"  You're  cold  ?  "  asked  Miss   Mason  quickly. 

The  figure  nodded  its  head. 

"  Who  sent  you  to  me?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Personne.  But  I  know  Keetie  Jenkins  'as  been 
model  for  you.  She  tell  me  you  ask  'er  when  you 
bring  ze  baby  ze  white  jacket.  Mrs.  Jenkins  'as 
taken  Keetie  away,  so  I  tink  I  do  instead  of  Keetie." 

"  Huh,"  grunted  Miss  Mason.  "  Haven't  seen 
you  yet.  So  the  Jenkinses  have  gone,  have  they? 
That  accounts  for  Kitty  failing  me  this  morning. 
They  might  have  taken  the  trouble  to  let  me  know." 

The  small  figure  by  the  fire  raised  its  head  quickly. 
Miss  Mason  and  Barnabas  had  a  glimpse  of  a 
pointed  chin  and  a  scarlet  mouth. 

"  Mrs.  Jenkins  she  is  too  un'appy.  You  see 
Georgie  'e  is  dead." 

"  Georgie !  Never  heard  of  him.  Who  was 
he  ?  "  demanded  Miss  Mason. 

"  'Er  little  boy."  The  reply  came  seriously. 
"  'E  die  of  doing  too  many  lessons.  Mrs.  Jenkins 
say  Keetie  not  die  zat  way.  She  'as  gone  to  ze 
country,  where  ze  'spectors  not  so  'ticular,  she  say." 

"  A  unique  death,"  remarked  Barnabas  gravely. 
"  I  don't  fancy  many  little  boys  die  of  that  com- 
plaint.    Have  you  ever  posed  before?" 


128  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Mais,  oui."  The  head  was  nodded  vigorously. 
"  Sail  I  pose  for  you?  " 

"  Don't  know  what  you're  like  yet,"  said  Miss 
Mason. 

"  There  is  a  proverb,  O  infant,"  supplemented 
Barnabas,  "  which  instructs  one  never  to  buy  a  pig 
in  a  poke.  Acting  on  that  principle,  it  is  impossible 
for  us  to  decide  on  a  model  attired  as  you  are. 
Therefore "  he  broke  off. 

"  Oh,  my  tings,"  she  nodded  gravely.  "  I  take 
zem  off." 

The  figure  tossed  the  slouched  hat  on  to  a  chair. 
It  was  followed  by  the  coat  and  the  boots,  which 
later  were  kicked  off,  disclosing  bare  feet  small  and 
well-arched. 

There  stood  before  them  a  slip  of  a  girl-child, 
in  a  faded  green  frock,  black  hair  cut  square  on  the 
forehead  and  at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  some  mediaeval  page,  the  face  white,  with 
pointed  chin  and  geranium-coloured  mouth,  eyes 
grey  with  pupils  large  and  very  black.  She  might 
have  been  about  nine  years  old. 

She  raised  her  hands  to  the  back  of  her  neck,  un- 
fastening mysterious  strings.  Before  Miss  Mason 
was  aware  of  her  intention,  she  slid  suddenly  out  of 
her  clothes  and  stood  on  the  hearthrug  before  them, 
naked  as  the  day  on  which  she  was  born. 

"  Bien?"  she  queried. 

Miss  Mason  gave  a  faint  shriek. 

"  Barnabas,  turn  your  back  and  leave  the  studio 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  129 

at  once.  I  never  paint  a  nude  model.  It  is  against 
all  my  principles  to  do  so.  Put  on  your  clothes 
again  at  once,  child.  Barnabas,  stop  laughing.  I 
know  you're  perfectly  brazen  on  the  subject.  Re- 
member, in  spite  of  my  age,  I'm  an  unmarried 
woman." 

Barnabas  picked  up  a  piece  of  scarlet  silk  drapery 
from  the  model-stand  and  flung  it  round  the  child, 
who  was  looking  from  him  to  Miss  Mason  in  aston- 
ishment. When  she  was  enveloped  in  its  folds  he 
spoke. 

"  Miss  Mason,  my  child,  is  not  used  to  seeing  little 
girls  in  their  birthday  attire.  It  surprised  her.  She 
has  a  penchant  for  petticoats  and  frocks,  to  say 
nothing  of  stockings.  She  might,  however,  be  per- 
suaded to  paint  you  draped  as  you  now  are.  You 
look,  by  the  way,  uncommonly  like  a  scarlet  poppy." 

The  child  looked  gravely  at  Barnabas. 

"  She  not  paint  se  altogezzer?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Precisely.  She  does  not  paint  what  the  immor- 
tal Trilby  termed  '  the  altogether,'  which  phrase  you 
have  just  made  your  own." 

The  child  nodded  her  head. 

"  Mais,  oui.  Some  peoples  zey  do  not.  I  hear 
Monsieur  Thiery  say  one  time  it  toute  a  fait  ex- 
traordinaire zat  some  peoples  'shamed  to  look  at  ze 
greatest  'andiwork  of  God.  I  did  not  know,  me, 
zat  ze  peoples  who  live  in  ze  vrais  ateliers  zey  tink 
it  shame." 

"  We  all  have  our  little  prejudices,"  said  Barna- 


130  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

bas  lightly.  "  Naked  little  girls  is  apparently  one 
of  Miss  Mason's." 

He  smiled  whimsically  at  that  lady. 

"Shall  we  paint  this  infant?"  he  asked  her. 
"  Can  the  woolly  jackets  be  put  on  one  side,  and 
may  I  fetch  my  palette  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Miss  Mason  shortly.  "  It's 
nice  of  you  not  to  laugh  at  my  prejudices,  Barna- 
bas." 

"  There  are  moments  when  I  rather  like  them," 
he  assured  her.     And  he  vanished  from  the  studio. 

When  he  returned  it  was  to  find  Miss  Mason 
kneeling  by  a  low  chair  on  which  the  child  was 
seated.  The  red  silk  was  off  the  shoulders,  and 
Miss  Mason  was  sponging  an  ugly  bruise  on  the 
child's  back.  She  turned  her  head  as  Barnabas  en- 
tered. 

"  Look  at  this,"  she  said  in  a  low,  indignant  voice. 

"Who  did  it?"  asked  Barnabas. 

"  Some  brute  she  calls  Mrs.  Higgins."  Miss  Ma- 
son's voice  augured  ill  for  that  lady,  had  she  been 
at  hand. 

"  Mrs.  'iggins  drunk,"  said  the  child  patiently. 
"  She  often  drunk.     Ver'  drunk  last  night." 

Miss  Mason  put  some  ointment  on  the  bruise,  and 
covered  it  with  a  piece  of  soft  linen.  Then  she 
wrapped  the  red  silk  again  round  the  child.  She  sat 
down  in  the  big  chair  and  drew  the  child  to  her. 

"  Now,  little  one,"  she  said,  speaking  in  French, 
"  tell  us  all  about  it." 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  131 

"  Oh !  "  cried  the  child  rapturously,  "  you  speak 
French."  Her  face  had  gone  crimson  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  Tell  us  everything,"  said  Miss  Mason. 

It  came  then,  an  odd  little  story,  scrappily  told. 
Her  name  was  Pippa.  She  had  lived  in  Paris  with 
Madame  Barbin.  Madame  Barbin  washed  clothes 
till  they  were  white  —  oh,  but  very  white.  Pippa 
had  posed  for  artists.  She  loved  Madame  Barbin, 
but  she  had  died  —  a  year,  perhaps  two  years,  ago. 
Madame  Fournier  had  taken  care  of  her  then.  She 
did  not  like  Madame  Fournier,  who  was  cross. 
Then  Madame  Fournier  had  brought  her  in  a  ship 
to  England.  Perhaps  that  was  a  year  ago.  Any- 
how, it  was  cold  weather.  They  had  lived  in  dif- 
ferent houses,  and  finally  at  Mrs.  Higgins'  house, 
and  Pippa  had  posed  for  different  artists  in  London. 
Some  time  in  the  summer,  Madame  Fournier  had 
gone  away,  leaving  Pippa  with  Mrs.  Higgins.  She 
had  not  come  back.  Mrs.  Higgins  was  angry  — 
very  angry,  according  to  Pippa.  She  beat  her  oc- 
casionally, but  not  always  very  badly.  Bruises  were 
likely  to  be  seen  on  one  who  poses  for  "  the  alto- 
gether." Lately,  however,  Mrs.  Higgins  had  been 
too  angry  to  remember  that  fact.  Hence  the  bruises 
of  the  previous  evening.  In  reply  to  further  ques- 
tioning it  was  found  that  Pippa  knew  no  one  she 
had  ever  called  father  or  mother.  There  were  only 
Madame  Barbin,  Madame  Fournier,  Mrs.  Higgins, 
and  the  names  of  quite  a  good  many  well-known  ar- 


132  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

tists  for  whom  she  had  posed.  She  also  stated  that 
she  washed  herself  every  morning,  though  Mrs. 
Higgins  said  it  was  "  un'ealthy."  And  she  washed 
and  dried  her  underclothes  when  Mrs.  Higgins  was 
away  at  the  public-houses,  where  she  spent  most  of 
her  time. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Mason  nodded.  "The  child  is 
clean,  at  all  events." 

And  then  suddenly  at  the  end  of  the  recital,  Pippa 
swayed  a  little  sideways,  and  if  Barnabas  had  not 
sprung  forward  she  would  have  fallen  on  the  hearth- 
rug. As  it  was,  she  lay  in  his  arms,  her  face  dead 
white  against  the  scarlet  folds  of  silk.  In  a  word, 
Pippa  had  fainted. 

Barnabas  laid  her  flat  on  the  hearthrug  and 
opened  the  door  and  windows.  Miss  Mason  fetched 
brandy  and  a  large  cut-glass  bottle  of  smelling-salts, 
which  she  held  to  the  child's  nose,  making  a  curious 
clucking  sound  with  her  tongue,  and  lamenting 
that  there  were  no  feathers  handy  to  burn.  But 
presently,  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  feathers,  Pippa 
opened  her  eyes. 

Then  Barnabas  put  a  question. 

"  When  did  you  last  have  food  ? "  he  asked, 
watching  her. 

Pippa  put  up  a  small  hand  to  her  forehead  and 
pushed  back  the  dark  hair. 

"  Yesterday,"  she  said  feebly.  "  Bread  and 
treacle  " — she  rolled  the  r's  in  a  funny  way — "  at 
dinner-time." 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  133 

"  And  nothing  since  then !  "  cried  Miss  Mason 
in  horror.     "  Oh !  that  Mrs.  Higgins !  " 

But  Barnabas  was  already  in  the  kitchen  issuing 
commands  to  Sally. 

"  Bread,  Sally,  quick.  Cut  it  in  small  pieces  and 
put  them  in  a  saucepan  with  lots  of  milk.  Is  there 
a  good  fire?  Yes.  Ever  made  bread  and  milk  in 
your  life  before?"     And  Sally  flew  round. 

Ten  minutes  later  Barnabas  and  Miss  Mason  were 
feeding  a  small  famished  girl,  who  was  looking  at 
them  as  if  they  were  gods  from  another  world,  and 
at  the  bread  and  milk  as  if  it  were  the  nectar  and 
ambrosia  they  had  brought  with  them. 

And  when  the  blue  basin  was  empty  Barnabas 
lifted  Pippa  in  his  arms,  and  guided  by  Miss  Mason, 
carried  her  into  the  inner  room,  and  laid  her  like  a 
little  broken  poppy  in  Miss  Mason's  bed.  Together 
they  tucked  her  in,  and  saw  the  white  eyelids  close 
slowly  over  the  great  grey  eyes. 

Then  they  went  out  into  the  studio.  And  Barna- 
bas threw  the  man's  coat  and  hat,  and  the  old  boots 
into  a  corner.  The  other  garments  he  put  on  the 
model  stand. 

"  I  shall  come  back  by  and  by,"  he  said,  "  and 
see  how  the  small  creature  is  getting  on." 

He  looked  in  twice  during  the  day  to  find  that 
she  was  still  asleep.  It  was  after  sunset  when  he 
came  the  third  time,  and  it  was  to  find  her  sitting 
near  the  fire  eating  a  delicious  brown  egg  and  slices 
of  bread  and  butter,  while  Miss  Mason  was  telling 


134  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

her  that  most  entrancing  of  fairy  tales  — "  The 
Sleeping  Beauty." 

Barnabas  sat  down  and  waited.  Every  now  and 
then  he  looked  at  the  child  with  a  puzzled  expression 
in  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he  threw  back  his  head.  He 
very  nearly  whistled.  Something  that  had  eluded 
him  had  been  discovered. 

The  egg  and  the  story  were  finished.  There 
came  a  silence. 

The  child's  eyes  wandered  round  the  studio. 
They  lighted  on  the  faded  green  dress  lying  on  the 
model  stand.  A  queer  little  look  of  sadness  that 
should  be  foreign  to  a  child's  face  crept  back  into 
her  eyes. 

She  slid  down  from  her  chair,  and  stood  sol- 
emnly before  Miss  Mason. 

"  I  tank  you  bof  ver'  much,"  she  said,  with  a 
quaint  air  of  courtesy.  "  But  now  I  put  on  zem 
tings  and  go  back  to  Mrs.  'iggins." 

She  smiled  a  brave  little  smile,  sadder  than  any 
tears  or  protests. 

Barnabas  felt  a  sudden  odd  grip  at  his  throat. 
Miss  Mason  spoke  suddenly  and  firmly. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  going  back  to  Mrs. 
Higgins." 

The  child  looked  at  her  with  wondering  eyes. 

"You  mean ?"  she  said. 

"  That  you  are  going  to  stay  here  with  me,"  said 
Miss  Mason  decisively.  "  Barnabas,  you  must  help 
me -to  arrange  it." 


Princess  Pippa  Awakes  135 

The  child's  face  quivered. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  with  a  laugh  that  held  a  sob, 
"  I  tink  I  like  dat  Princess.  She  sleep  and  sleep, 
and  she  wake  up  when  ze  Prince  kiss  her,  and  ze 
world  all  ver'  'appy.  And  I  so  'appy  just  all  ze 
same,  wisout  no  Prince  kiss  me." 

And  then  Barnabas  did  a  queer  thing.  He  put 
his  arm  round  the  child  and  kissed  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AT   THE   WORLD'S   END 

BARELY  half  an  hour  after  Miss  Mason's  sud- 
den decision  Barnabas  set  out  for  a  small  and 
rather  unwholesome  street  somewhere  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  World's  End.  It  was  given  by  Pippa  as 
'the  locality  in  which  Mrs.  Higgins  had  her  resi- 
dence. 

It  was  not  entirely  on  Miss  Mason's  account  that 
Barnabas  was  anxious  to  make  further  enquiries 
regarding  the  child.  As  he  walked  along  the  King's 
Road,  with  its  pavement  slippery  and  muddy  from 
the  feet  of  many  passers-by,  his  mind  travelled  back 
to  memories  which  Pippa's  face  had  awakened  in 
him. 

They  were  memories  some  fourteen  or  fifteen 
years  old,  of  the  time  when  he  was  a  young  art  stu- 
dent. A  scene  he  had  almost  forgotten  came  clearly 
back  to  him.  He  saw  a  big  class-room  full  of 
easels  and  men  working  and  smoking.  He  saw 
himself,  very  young,  very  full  of  enthusiasm,  yet  at 
the  moment  very  full  of  despair.  He  saw  himself 
looking  with  disgust  at  his  own  somewhat  feeble 
attempt  to  reproduce  on  canvas  the  figure  of  the 
nude  model  who  was  standing  on  the  platform  be- 

136 


At  the  World's  End  137 

fore  him.  He  saw  the  master  coming  near,  and 
heard  his  words.  They  were  few  but  sarcastic. 
He  had  felt  that  the  whole  room  was  listening  to 
them.  First  an  insane  desire  to  sink  into  the  floor 
had  overwhelmed  him,  then  a  feeling  that  he  had 
better  take  his  canvas  and  brushes  and  fling  them 
into  the  river.  It  had  been  mere  presumption  on 
his  part  to  dream  of  art  as  a  career.  He  had  seen 
the  other  figures  in  the  room  through  a  kind  of 
hazy  blur.  The  voice  of  the  master  as  he  went 
from  easel  to  easel  had  come  to  him  as  through 
cotton-wool.  He  did  not  notice  that  almost  equally 
sarcastic  remarks  were  being  levelled  at  the  other 
canvases,  and  were  being  received  by  their  owners 
with  indifference  or  with  good-humoured  laughter. 
He  had  heard  the  door  close  presently  as  the  master 
left  the  room.  Then  he  heard  a  voice  at  his  elbow 
—  a  curiously  musical  voice : 

"  It's  a  pity  Saltby  looks  upon  sarcasm  in  the 
light  of  instruction  in  art.  He  can  paint  quite  de- 
cently himself,  but  he  has  no  more  notion  of  teach- 
ing than  a  torn  cat." 

Barnabas  remembered  that  he  had  turned  to  look 
at  the  speaker,  and  had  seen  a  dark  foreign-looking 
man  standing  beside  him.  The  man  had  looked  at 
him  sharply. 

"  That  fellow  has  worried  you,"  he  said. 
"  They're  just  calling  rest.  Come  along  out  and 
have  a  smoke." 

Barnabas  remembered  following  him  into  the  cor- 


138  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

ridor.  He  remembered  the  curious  feeling  of  rest- 
ful strength  the  man  had  given  him  as  they  walked 
up  and  down  together. 

'•  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice,"  he  had 
said  suddenly.  "  Remember  this,  that  the  opinion 
of  one  man,  even  if  he  happens  to  be  your  master, 
counts  for  nothing.  The  moment  you  touch  any 
art  —  painting,  sculpture,  music,  or  literature  — 
you're  laying  yourself  open  to  criticism,  and  you'll 
find  any  amount  of  it  adverse.  Don't  let  it  dis- 
courage you.  If  you've  got  the  inner  conviction 
that  you  can  do  something,  forge  ahead  and  do  it. 
Don't  be  damped  by  adverse  criticism.  If  you  can 
learn  from  it,  learn;  but  don't  let  it  kill  the  germ 
of  belief  in  yourself." 

"  But  can't  one  be  mistaken  in  the  belief  that  one 
can  do  something?"  Barnabas  remembered  asking. 

"If  you  are  mistaken  you'll  find  it  out  for  your- 
self," the  man  had  replied  earnestly.  "  My  dear 
boy,  the  men  who  can't,  and  never  will,  do  anything 
are  those  who  are  so  cocksure  of  themselves  that 
they  are  impervious  to  sarcasm  and  every  adverse 
criticism  under  the  sun.  It  simply  doesn't  hurt 
them.  It  does  hurt  us.  It  touches  us  on  the  raw. 
But  we've  got  to  go  on.  You  felt  like  chucking 
the  whole  thing  just  now.  I'll  be  bound  it  wasn't 
exactly  that  your  self-vanity  was  wounded,  but  be- 
cause you  felt  that  it  had  been  utterly  presumptuous 
of  you  ever  to  have  attempted  to  lift  your  eyes  to 
the  Immortal  Goddess.     My  dear  boy,  she  loves 


At  the  World's  End  139 

men  to  look  at  her  and  worship  her,  from  however 
far  off.  It's  those  who  say  they  are  paying  her 
homage,  but  who  all  the  time  are  looking  at  and 
worshipping  themselves,  for  whom  she  has  no  use. 
Go  on  worshipping  her.  Keep  big  ideas  before  you 
and  one  day  you  may  get  near  the  foot  of  her 
throne.  It's  not  given  to  many  to  touch  her  knees. 
But  to  worship  at  the  foot  of  the  throne  is  some- 
thing. Why,  even  to  look  at  her  from  afar  is  worth 
years  of  struggle.  Saltby  keeps  one  eye  on  her  I 
grant,  but  he  keeps  the  other  on  himself,  and  it 
makes  him  the  damned  conceited  and  sarcastic  ass 
he  is.  .  .  ." 

Barnabas  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  distinctly,  to 
feel  the  magnetism  of  the  man  who  had  spoken  the 
words  so  many  years  ago. 

He  remembered  later  in  the  evening  hearing  two 
students  speaking  of  the  man. 

"  Kostolitz  is  a  weird  chap,"  one  had  said ;  "  mad 
as  a  hatter." 

"  Spends  half  his  time  like  a  tramp,"  said  the 
other,  "  going  around  the  country  and  writing 
poetry,  and  the  other  half  in  sculpting.  Every  now 
and  then  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  come  in  here 
and  draw  a  bit.  He  says  it  freshens  him  up  to  see 
beginners  on  their  way  to  fame." 

Barnabas  remembered  that  Kostolitz  had  come 
to  him  at  the  end  of  the  morning  and  had  suggested 
their  walking  back  to  Chelsea  together.  It  had  been 
the  beginning  of  their  friendship. 


140  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

The  man's  face  came  persistently  before  him 
this  evening  as  he  pursued  his  way  towards  the 
World's  End. 

Other  little  speeches  of  his  returned  to  his  mind. 
"  I  love  colour,"  he  seemed  to  hear  him  saying, 
"  but  I  can't  work  in  paints.  They  aren't  my 
medium.  I  want  to  get  to  the  solid.  Give  me  a 
lump  of  clay  and  I'm  happy.  It's  nonsense  to  say 
there's  only  colour  in  actual  coloured  things. 
There  is  colour  in  everything  —  words,  music, 
thoughts  —  the  world's  steeped  in  colour  if  you  can 
only  see  it.  Why,  man,  it  may  seem  odd  to  you, 
but  people  even  give  me  the  sense  of  colour.  Per- 
haps it's  the  old  Eastern  idea  of  auras,  I  don't 
know.  Anyhow,  that  idea  is  too  mixed  up  with 
spiritualism  and  closed  rooms  to  appeal  to  me. 
Give  me  the  open  air,  the  sunshine,  flowers,  and 
singing  birds.  I  can  believe  in  fairies,  gnomes,  the 
People  of  the  Wind,  and  the  People  of  the  Trees, 
anything  that  is  of  the  Spirit  of  Nature.  There 
they  sit  together  —  Nature  and  Art  —  the  two 
great  goddesses,  bless  them;  and  men  try  to  sepa- 
rate Art  from  Nature.  They  can't,  man,  I  tell  you 
they  can't." 

Barnabas  could  almost  see  the  man's  eyes  —  pas- 
sionate grey  eyes  —  fixed  on  him  as  he  remembered 
the  words.  And  it  was  the  memory  of  those  eyes 
that  Pippa's  eyes  had  awakened  in  him,  and  with 
their  memory  had  brought  the  other  scenes  before 
him.     The    memory    had    awakened    as    he    had 


At  the  World's  End  141 

watched  her  listening  entranced  to  the  story  of 
"  The  Sleeping  Beauty."  He  had  seen  the  eyes  of 
his  friend  Kostolitz  looking  at  him  from  the  small 
pale  face,  and  suddenly  he  had  seen  the  whole  won- 
derful likeness  the  child  bore  to  the  man.  Kosto- 
litz was  dead,  had  been  dead  now  many  years.  Had 
he  left  behind  him  this  scrap  of  humanity,  holding 
perhaps  a  spirit  as  poetical  and  intense  as  his  own, 
to  battle  with  the  world?  If  it  were  so,  for  the 
sake  of  that  friendship,  it  must  be  protected.  And 
something  told  Barnabas  that  he  was  not  mistaken 
in  his  belief. 

He  turned  now  into  the  small  dark  street.  He 
found  the  house  whose  number  Pippa  had  given 
him,  and  knocked  on  the  door.  It  was  opened  by 
a  large,  slatternly  woman  with  a  watery  eye. 

"  That  you,  Pippa?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  'Ere,  you 
come  in,  and  I'll  give  you  somethink  staying  hout 
like  this." 

Then  she  saw  Barnabas.  Visions  of  N.S.P.C.C. 
inspectors  rose  suddenly  before  her  mind.  Mrs. 
Higgins  quailed  inwardly. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  asked,  and  her  voice  was  truculent 
because  her  spirit  was  quaking,  "  and  wot  can  I  do 
for  you,  sir?  " 

"  Am  I,"  asked  Barnabas  suavely,  "  addressing 
Mrs.  Higgins?  " 

"  That's  my  nime,"  replied  the  lady,  arms 
akimbo. 

"  I  believe,"  continued  Barnabas,   still   suavely, 


142  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  that  you  have  had  charge  of  a  child  —  a  little 
girl  named  Pippa." 

u  I  'ave,"  said  Mrs.  Higgins  defiantly,  "  and  a 
more  hungrateful,  huntruthful,  little  baggage  I 
hain't  never  set  heyes  on.  Hif  you  'ave  hanythink 
to  say  about  'er,  per'aps  you'll  kindly  step  hinside." 

Barnabas  stepped  into  the  small  passage.  It  was 
ill-smelling,  redolent  of  dirt  and  boiled  cabbage. 
Mrs.  Higgins  herself  breathed  gin.  She  was,  how- 
ever, at  the  moment  tolerably  sober. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Barnabas,  "  that  she  came 
here  with  a  Madame  Fournier." 

Mrs.  Higgins  blazed.  "  She  did.  A  French 
'uzzy  wot  took  and  disappeared  last  June,  leaving 
me  with  'er  child.  Friend's  child  she  called  it.  I 
know  them  gimes.  Just  about  as  much  a  friend's 
child  as  Madame  'ad  a  right  to  'er  title  or  'er  ring 
wot  she  wore  so  conspikus,  I'll  be  bound.  Leaving 
me  with  the  child  on  me  'ands,  wot  I  kep'  from 
charity,  and  never  so  much  has  a  penny  piece  to 
pay  for  'er  keep  but  wot  she  gets  from  them  hartists 
as  she  goes  to." 

"  Then  the  child,"  asked  Barnabas,  "  is  no  rela- 
tion of  yours?  " 

"  Relation  of  mine !  "  cried  Mrs.  Higgins  indig- 
nantly and  virtuously.  "  Do  yer  think  hif  she  be- 
longed to  me  as  I'd  allow  'er  to  be  standing  naked 
f  er  men  to  look  at.  I'm  a  respectable  woman,  I  am, 
I  thanks  the  Halmighty."  Mrs.  Higgins  ended 
with  a  loud  sniff. 


At  the  World's  End  143 

Barnabas  suddenly  felt  a  sensation  of  almost 
physical  nausea.  He  seemed  to  hear  Kostolitz's 
voice  begging  him  to  leave  the  place,  to  get  away 
from  the  filth  of  the  atmosphere,  and  above  all 
never  to  let  the  child  return  to  it. 

"  Then,"  said  Barnabas  decisively,  "  you  will  no 
doubt  be  glad  to  be  relieved  from  the  burden  of 
maintaining  her.  She  will  not  return  here,  and  she 
will  be  provided  for." 

Mrs.  Higgins  gasped  at  the  suddenness  of  the 
statement.  She  felt  something  like  dismay.  She 
saw  Pippa's  earnings,  which  had  added  largely  to 
her  weekly  income,  disappearing  in  the  distance. 

"  And  'ow  about  the  hexpense  I've  been  put 
to !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Yer  don't  feed  a  growing 
child  for  six  months  fer  nothink,  and  me  as  kind 
to  'er  as  hif  I'd  been  'er  own  mother."  Mrs.  Hig- 
gins began  to  sob  here,  moved  to  tears  by  the  mem- 
ory of  her  own  tenderness. 

Barnabas'  mouth  set  grimly. 

"  I  think,  Mrs.  Higgins,"  he  remarked,  "  that  the 
less  you  say  about  your  treatment  of  the  child 
the  better.  As  far  as  her  keep  is  concerned  her 
own  earnings  have  no  doubt  paid  you  more  than 
adequately  for  the  food  you  have  given  her.  As 
however  you  will  lose  them  in  the  future " 

He  pulled  two  sovereigns  from  his  pocket. 

"  Take  these,"  he  said  briefly,  "  and  good 
evening." 

He  turned  from  the  house  leaving  Mrs.  Higgins 


144  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

gaping  and  astonished.  It  is  a  mercy  when  the 
Mrs.  Higginses  of  the  world  can  be  thus  easily 
disposed  of. 

Barnabas  walked  away  down  the  street,  marvel- 
ling at  the  fact  that  man  had  originally  been  created 
by  God  in  His  own  image. 

He  went  straight  back  to  studio  number  seven, 
where  he  found  Miss  Mason  anxiously  awaiting 
him.  He  sat  down  and  gave  her  a  brief  account 
of  his  search  and  its  results,  omitting,  however, 
a  description  of  the  dirt  and  smells. 

"  And  so,"  he  ended,  smiling,  "  you  mean  to  keep 
this  waif?" 

"  I  couldn't  let  her  go,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Did 
you  see  her  eyes  ?  " 

Barnabas  had.  But  the  look  in  them  had  hurt 
him  too  much  for  him  to  care  to  think  about  it. 
So  he  merely  said  lightly : 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Asleep  on  half  a  dozen  cushions  and  among 
blankets  on  the  floor  of  my  room.  She  has  had 
a  bath  and  been  wrapped  again  in  that  red  silk. 
She'll  have  to  live  in  it  till  I  can  get  her  some  more 
clothes.  I've  burnt  the  others,  and  put  the  hat, 
coat,  and  boots  in  the  dust  hole.  In  spite  of  her 
poor  little  attempts  at  cleanliness,  one  never  knows." 

"  One  does  not,"  said  Barnabas  grimly,  thinking 
of  the  house  she  had  come  from.  "  May  I  smoke  ?  " 
he  asked. 


At  the  World's  End  145 

"  Certainly,"  said  Miss  Mason.  She  liked  the 
scent  of  tobacco  in  her  studio.  She  felt  it  to  be 
part  and  parcel  of  Bohemia. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

Miss  Mason  was  thinking  of  the  child  lying 
asleep  in  the  next  room.  She  had  an  odd  feeling 
that  the  Fates  had  sent  Pippa  directly  to  her  that 
she  might  in  a  way  atone  to  herself  for  her  own 
lonely  childhood  by  making  this  morsel  of  human- 
ity happy.  She  had  already  begun  to  weave  the 
dreams  that  are  woven  by  fairy  godmothers. 

And  Barnabas'  thoughts  had  again  travelled  back 
to  his  friend  Kostolitz,  and  the  thoughts  made  his 
eyes  grave  and  a  little  sad. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  Paris  to-morrow,"  he  said 
suddenly,  breaking  the  silence. 

"  Yes  ?  "  queried  Miss  Mason. 

"  You  know  that  oil-portrait  that  hangs  by  my 
mantelpiece  ? "  he  asked.  "  Doesn't  a  likeness 
strike  you?  " 

Miss  Mason  looked  up.  She  felt  suddenly  a 
little  anxious. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  never  thought 
of  it  before.     It's  the  image  of  Pippa." 

Barnabas  nodded. 

"  I  saw  it  when  I  came  back  into  the  studio  and 
found  her  at  tea." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Who  is  the  portrait  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mason. 

"  A   man   I   knew    long   ago,"    said    Barnabas. 


H&  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  His  name  was  Philippe  Kostolitz.  He  was  a 
strange  man  —  an  Hungarian.  He  was  a  true 
vagabond,  yet  certainly  of  good  birth.  I  knew 
hothing  of  his  people,  if  he  had  any.  He  was  half 
gipsy  and  wholly  artist.  The  statue  of  the  little 
faun  in  my  garden  is  his  work.  He  gave  it  to  me. 
We  were  great  friends." 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Mason  softly.  "  And  where  is 
he  now  ?  " 

Barnabas  made  a  swift  sign  of  the  cross.  He 
had  been  baptized  a  Catholic,  and  in  spite  of  his 
present  rather  Pagan  views  regarding  life  he  had 
retained  this  beautiful  custom.  There  was  an  in- 
nate instinct  of  reverence  in  Barnabas. 

"  In  Paradise  I  hope.  He  was  killed  nine  years 
ago  in  a  railway  accident.  It  was  a  horribly  pro- 
saic ending  for  a  man  whose  whole  nature  was 
the  essence  of  poetry." 

Miss  Mason  was  silent.  After  a  moment  she 
spoke. 

"  Then  you  think  that  Pippa "  she  broke  off. 

She  was  looking  straight  at  Barnabas. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  bluntly.  "  The  likeness 
is  extraordinary.  In  Paris  I  might  find  out  some- 
thing from  the  artists  for  whom  she  posed.  I  know 
one  or  two  of  them  personally." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  The  journey, 
of  course,  will  be  my  affair." 

"  That,"  said  Barnabas,  "  is  pure  nonsense.  If 
Pippa  —  you  see,  Kostolitz  was  my  friend." 


At  the  World's  End  147 

"  But  I  wish  it,"  said  Miss  Mason.  And  some- 
thing in  her  voice  made  Barnabas  give  way. 

Ten  minutes  or  so  later  he  left  the  studio. 

Before  Miss  Mason  put  out  her  light  that  night 
she  went  across  to  the  heap  of  cushions  and  blankets 
and  looked  at  Pippa.  She  touched  her  cheek 
gently  with  one  wrinkled  hand.  It  was  long  before 
Miss  Mason  slept.  She  lay  awake  listening  to  the 
regular  sound  of  the  child's  breathing. 

The  morning,  with  the  variability  of  English 
weather,  broke  still  and  sunny,  a  touch  of  frost  in 
the  air. 

Barnabas  looked  in  at  Miss  Mason's  studio  be- 
fore he  left  for  Paris. 

He  found  that  lady  sitting  in  her  chair  knitting. 
Pippa  was  curled  up  on  the  hearthrug,  the  red  silk 
tightly  swathing  her  slim  body.  A  pair  of  shoes 
and  stockings  of  Sally's,  many  sizes  too  big  for 
her,  covered  her  feet.  She  was  watching  Miss 
Mason  with  the  eyes  of  an  adoring  puppy. 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet  as  she  saw  Barnabas. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried,  a  note  of  great  pleasure  in  her 
voice.  "  It  is  ze  so  sunny  Monsieur.  I  wis  you 
good  morning." 

Barnabas  came  over  and  stood  on  the  hearthrug. 

"  I'm  just  off,"  he  said. 

"  I  knew  you'd  look  in,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  I 
waited  for  you  before  going  out  to  buy  garments." 

"  Going  away  ? "   asked   Pippa,   looking  at  him 


148  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

with  troubled  eyes.  She  had  had  experience  of 
people  who  went  away  and  did  not  return. 

"  Only  for  a  few  days,  and  mainly  on  business 
which  concerns  you,  little  one,"  he  replied. 

Pippa  gave  a  relieved  sigh. 

"  Come  back  ver'  quick,"  she  said.  And  then 
suddenly:     "  What  is  your  name?  " 

He  laughed.  "  You  must  call  me  Barnabas,"  he 
said. 

She  nodded  her  head.  "  Monsieur  Barnabas," 
she  said  slowly.  Then  she  turned  to  Miss  Mason. 
"  What  sail  I  call  you? "  she  asked. 

A  sudden  little  tender  thought  sprang  into  Miss 
Mason's  mind.     She  put  it  aside. 

"  You  can  call  me,"  she  said  rather  gruffly, 
"  Aunt  Olive." 

Again  the  child  nodded  her  head.  "  Aunt  Oleeve 
and  Monsieur  Barnabas,  c'est  bon."  She  looked  an 
odd  little  elfin  figure  as  she  stood  there  watching 
them. 

11 1  must  be  off,"  said  Barnabas.  "  I've  no  time 
to  lose." 

Pippa  came  to  the  door  with  him. 

"  Bon  voyage,"  she  cried,  waving  her  hand. 
And  then  suddenly  she  saw  the  marble  faun  in  the 
next  garden. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried.  "  Quel  beau  petit  garcpn !  " 
She  darted  down  one  path  and  up  another. 

The  last  thing  Barnabas  saw,  as  he  looked  back 
before  leaving  the  courtyard,  was  a  poppy-coloured 


At  the  World's  End  149 

figure  standing  in  the  wintry  sunshine  beside  a 
white  marble  faun.  The  child  had  her  arms  fa- 
miliarly round  the  faun's  neck. 

He  painted  that  picture  later  when  the  days  were 
warmer.  It  was  a  picture  that  was  to  travel  far 
away  from  England,  and  it  was  to  keep  alive  in 
the  heart  of  a  woman  the  memory  of  a  secret  —  a 
secret  of  three  weeks  of  glorious  happiness  and 
a  strange  regret  —  a  secret  known  only  to  herself 
and  to  three  other  living  people. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

VARIOUS    MATTERS 

AND  so  Barnabas  departed  to  Paris  in  the  at- 
tempt to  find  some  clue  regarding  the  scrap  of 
humanity  which  the  Fates  had  led  to  Miss  Mason's 
studio.  It  was  not  that  Miss  Mason  cared  in  the 
smallest  degree  what  her  parentage  was.  She  was 
just  a  lonely  little  soul  needing  love,  and  so  Miss 
Mason  had  taken  her  into  her  arms  and  into  her 
big  heart.  Dan  had  once  said  of  Miss  Mason,  and 
only  shortly  after  making  her  acquaintance : 

"  I  veritably  believe  that  woman  has  the  biggest 
hands,  the  biggest  feet,  and  the  biggest  heart  of 
any  woman  in  Christendom."  And  the  more  he 
knew  of  her  the  more  convinced  he  felt  of  the  truth 
of  his  statement. 

But  even  a  big  heart  is  not  entirely  sufficient 
guarantee  for  taking  possession  of  a  small  girl. 
One  can  no  more  pick  one  up  and  keep  it  than  one 
can  pick  up  a  valuable  ornament  and  place  it  on 
one's  mantelpiece.  At  any  rate,  if  one  did  there 
would  always  be  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  the 
rightful  owner  might  one  day  walk  casually  up  to 
it  and  say : 

"  That  is  mine." 

150 


Various  Matters  151 

Barnabas  understood  this,  and  therefore  he  had 
gone  off  to  Paris  to  see  if  there  were  any  likelihood 
of  a  rightful  owner  turning  up  one  day  to  claim 
Pippa.  It  was  wiser  that  Miss  Mason  should  not 
get  too  attached  to  her  possession  before  he  had 
made  sure  on  that  point.  Also  there  was  the 
memory  of  Philippe  Kostolitz. 

But  while  he  was  gone  Miss  Mason  petted  the 
child  to  her  heart's  content,  bought  dainty  under- 
garments and  charming  frocks,  and  played  that  de- 
lightful game  of  "  mother,"  which  is  a  game  all 
women  have  played  throughout  eternity  at  some 
time  in  their  lives,  even  if  it  is  only  played  with  a 
rag  doll  wrapped  in  a  shawl. 

And  while  she  was  playing,  and  while  Pippa 
was  enjoying  the  game  almost  as  much  as  she  was 
and  revelling  in  frilly  petticoats,  long  black 
stockings,  buckled  shoes,  and  soft  green  frocks  — 
green  seemed  to  belong  to  her,  for  some  reason, 
as  a  matter  of  course  —  the  other  five  artists  of  the 
courtyard  were  living  their  lives,  painting  their 
pictures,  smoking  their  pipes,  and  being  happy  or 
miserable  according  to  their  moods. 

And  it  is  perhaps  safe  to  say,  though  a  great  pity 
to  have  to  say  it,  that  Jasper's  mood  of  the  last 
six  months  had  been  one  of  utter  depression. 

At  first,  when  he  had  walked  away  from  the 
ugly  little  house  in  Chiswick,  he  had  felt  —  in  spite 
of  the  shock  he  had  received  at  Bridget's  unex- 
pected attitude  towards  him  —  a  certain  exultation 


153  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

in  the  thought  that  duty  would  never  compel  him 
to  take  that  route  again.  He  told  himself  that  he 
rejoiced  in  his  freedom,  but  after  a  day  or  so  he 
had  found  it  necessary  to  emphasize  that  point 
to  himself  with  a  certain  degree  of  insistence. 
Phrases  she  had  used  began  to  return  to  his  mind 
at  odd  moments.  In  the  midst  of  painting  an 
angel's  wing,  or  trying  to  concentrate  on  the 
beatific  expression  of  some  saint's  face,  he  would 
suddenly  hear  her  voice : 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  your  help,  to  tell  you  what 
I  had  suffered.     I  could  not." 

And  again,  when  painting  some  piece  of  flame- 
coloured  drapery,  he  would  hear  the  words: 

"  How  did  you  try  to  help  me  ?  By  talking 
calm  platitudes  through  a  kind  of  moral  disin- 
fectant sheet  which  you  held  between  us " 

And  yet  again,  as  he  tried  for  the  strength  of 
courage  in  the  face  of  the  warrior  angel,  he  would 
hear  her  saying: 

"  You  have  not  had  the  manhood  to  help  me." 

It  angered  him  that  she  should  come  between 
him  and  his  work.  He  had  loved  it.  He  had  felt 
a  kind  of  mystical  joy  in  it,  in  the  knowledge 
that  his  work  would  adorn  the  houses  of  God, 
and  that  the  saints  he  painted  would  look  down 
upon  the  altar  where  the  priest  commemorated 
the  Great  Sacrifice.  Sometimes  in  his  more 
intense  moments  he  had  fancied  himself  an 
incarnation    of    one    of    the    old    painters    who 


Various  Matters  153 

portrayed  for  sheer  love  of  God  dancing  saints 
garlanded  with  flowers.  He  did  not  know  that 
his  own  work  lacked  that  child-like  joy,  and  that 
its  asceticism  was  hard  and  cold. 

But  now  the  memory  of  the  house  in  Chiswick, 
which  he  used  to  banish  easily  from  his  thoughts, 
came  again  and  again  before  his  mind  to  prevent 
him  working.  He  began  to  leave  his  studio  and 
go  for  long  walks,  only  returning  when  it  was  too 
dark  to  paint.  And  his  fellow-artists  wondered 
what  possessed  him,  and  would  have  welcomed 
one  of  his  priggish  speeches  rather  than  this 
moody  silence. 

And  Alan  Farley,  the  other  artist  who  fancied 
himself  a  mystic,  painted  a  few  pictures  when  the 
inspiration  was  upon  him,  pictures  which  re- 
mained to  adorn  his  own  studio  walls,  as  they 
were  incomprehensible  to  any  one  but  himself 
and  to  one  other  —  a  girl,  Aurora  Castleton,  in 
whom  Alan  found  a  kindred  soul.  They  fre- 
quented each  other's  studios,  and  talked  of  "  the 
true  spirit,"  and  "  the  deeper  meaning,"  and  "  the 
virtue  of  symbolism,"  and  lamented  that  the  public 
were  too  blind  to  realize  the  inner  beauty 
which  they  were  kindly  interpreting  for  them  on 
canvas.  They  found,  however,  a  great  deal  of 
consolation  and  pleasure  in  each  other's  society. 
And  a  Small  Boy  with  drooping  wings  sat  mourn- 
fully in  a  corner  and  heard  them  talk,  knowing 
that  he  alone  could  give  them  the  true  key  to  the 


154  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

meaning  of  Beauty  —  a  key  that  the  most  ignorant 
could  understand.  But  they  refused  to  look  at 
him.  Even  his  arrows  were  useless,  for  the  cloak 
of  High  Art  with  which  the  two  had  surrounded 
themselves  seems  to  be  the  one  thing  that  is 
impervious  to  them. 

And  Dan  plodded  on  with  his  Messonier-like 
paintings  and  missed  Barnabas  a  good  deal,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  gone  barely 
three  days.  And  Michael  did  wonderful  line 
work,  and  wrote  little  cynical  essays  for  a  small 
magazine  that  scoffed  at  love  as  sentimental. 

But  Paul  was  absorbed  in  his  portrait  of  the 
Duchessa,  and  in  the  wonderful  music  his  heart 
heard,  the  meaning  of  which  was  beginning  to 
dawn  on  his  soul. 

The  Duchessa  had  given  him  her  own  ideas 
regarding  the  portrait  the  first  morning  she  had 
come  to  the  studio.  She  had  told  him  about  the 
Cassa  di  Corleone,  and  the  courtyard  with  the 
golden  oranges  and  marble  fauns  and  nymphs, 
and  the  gallery  where  her  portrait  was  to  hang. 

"I  want  it,"  she  had  said,  "to  be  a  wee  bit  — 
just  the  weest  bit  in  the  world  —  flaunting.  The 
women  of  the  House  of  Corleone  are  haughty  and 
disdainful.  They  are  too  proud  to  show  their 
feelings.  If  they  ever  loved  the  courtyard  and  the 
sunshine,  they  would  have  scorned  to  show  it. 
They  have  scorned  me  often  for  loving  it.  I 
have  seen  —  you  may  laugh  at  me  if  you  like  — 


Various  Matters  155 

their  lips  curl  when  my  heart  has  danced  for  joy 
as  I  have  stood  in  the  gallery  and  watched  the 
sunlight  stream  through  the  big  hall  door. 
I  can't  hang  there  meekly  accepting  their  scorn. 
I  want  to  defy  them.  They  may  think  the  place 
theirs,  and  be  calmly  satisfied  in  their  possession 
of  it,  and  they  may  look  upon  me  as  an  alien. 
But  it  is  mine,  mine,  mine.  I  want  them  to  know 
it  —  not  aggressively,  you  realize  —  but  with  just 
the  tiniest  bit  of  assurance  that  there's  no  mis- 
take at  all." 

And  Paul  had  responded  to  her  mood  as  a 
violin  responds  to  the  master-hand  that  draws  the 
bow  across  its  strings.  He  had  sketched  her  in  on 
the  canvas  almost  as  she  had  spoken  the  words, 
standing  there  with  her  head  just  a  trifle  thrown 
back,  a  little  gleam  of  fascinating  devilry  in  her 
eyes. 

They  had  nearly  come  to  loggerheads  regarding 
her  dress,  however.  She  wished  it  to  be  scarlet, 
in  contrast  to  the  black  dresses  and  sombre 
colours  of  the  haughty  ladies  already  in  the 
gallery.  Paul  wished  it  to  be  blue.  In  the  end 
she  had  had  her  will.  It  was  not  often  that  Sara, 
Duchessa  di  Corleone,  failed  in  accomplishing  it. 
,  Perhaps  the  most  noticeable  characteristic  of 
Sara  was  her  vivid  magnetism.  Every  separate 
burnished  hair  of  her  head  seemed  to  possess  it. 
Her  eyes  possessed  it,  her  smile  possessed  it,  her 
voice  —  a  low  contralto  —  possessed  it.     Her  pres- 


156  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

ence  dominated  a  room  the  moment  she  entered 
it,  even  if  she  did  not  speak  a  word,  and  Sara 
possessed  a  curious  gift  for  silences.  They  were 
sudden  and  unaccountable  silences,  more  dis- 
concerting and  full  of  magnetism  than  speech. 
She  lapsed  into  them  often  with  Paul.  They 
came  as  a  sudden  and  odd  interruption  to  her 
flow  of  sparkling  talk.  She  had  a  trick  of  making 
the  most  ordinary  words  sparkle.  Water,  after 
all,  is  only  water,  but  it  can  look  very  different  in 
sunshine  from  beneath  a  grey  sky. 

And  perhaps  for  the  first  time  Paul  found 
himself  at  a  loss  to  read  the  character  she  pre- 
sented to  him.  Probably  because  he  could  not 
appreciate  it  sufficiently  calmly.  The  music  in 
his  heart  distracted  him,  and  the  tune  was  clearer 
and  sweeter  when  she  was  near.  He  knew  its 
meaning  now,  and  it  filled  him  with  happiness 
and  pain  —  happiness  because  it  is  the  most 
beautiful  music  in  the  world  to  those  who  hear 
it,  and  pain  because  it  somehow  seemed  to 
emphasize  his  own  loneliness.  And  because  he 
had  always  been  lonely  a  certain  feeling  had  come 
to  him  of  being  not  wanted.  It  was  not  exactly 
diffidence,  not  the  outcome  of  shyness,  but  merely 
a  certainty  that  he  made  no  difference  to  the 
scheme  of  happiness  in  others;  in  fact,  that  it 
probably  worked  more  easily  without  him. 
He  could  not  imagine  himself  as  essential  to 
anyone,  and  never  in  his  wildest  dreams  could  he 


Various  Matters  157 

have  imagined  himself  as  essential  to  the  woman 
who  had  suddenly  become  the  centre  of  his 
universe. 

One  evening  Barnabas  returned  and  walked  into 
Miss  Mason's  studio.  He  came  right  over  to  the 
fire  and  sat  down. 

"  Well  ? "  she  said,  looking  at  him  very 
anxiously.  The  game  of  "  mother  "  can  gain  an 
extraordinary  fascination  in  a  very  few  days. 

"  I  have  found  out  one  thing,"  said  Barnabas, 
"  that  is  a  curious  coincidence  at  all  events.  The 
child's  real  name  is  Philippa." 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Mason  slowly. 

"  I  went  to  different  studios,"  went  on  Bar- 
nabas, "  but  the  artists  knew  nothing  beyond  the 
fact  that  the  child  had  lived  with  Madame  Barbin. 
Then  I  went  to  the  houses  she  had  tenanted. 
The  neighbours  told  me  she  was  a  kind  old  soul, 
and  two  of  them  at  least  averred  that  they  re- 
membered the  advent  of  Pippa  to  the  house  when 
a  baby  of  a  few  weeks  old.  They  declare  that 
an  English  lady  brought  her  to  Madame  Barbin, 
and  that  Madame  Barbin  received  money  for  the 
child's  keep.  Madame  Fournier  was  a  relation  of 
Madame  Barbin's  —  a  niece,  they  believed.  They 
did  not  know  where  her  home  was  beyond  that 
it  was  somewhere  in  Brittany.  She  came  occa- 
sionally to  visit  Madame  Barbin,  and  was  with  her 
when   she   died.     Their   theory   is   that    Madame 


158  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Fournier  took  possession  of  the  child  in  order  to 
receive  the  allowance  made  for  her.  It  was 
sent  to  Madame  Barbin,  and  she  returned  a 
receipt  and  statement  that  the  child  was  alive 
and  well.  That,  at  least,  is  the  neighbour's  story. 
But  they  had  no  notion  from  whom  the  money 
came.  The  people  who  sent  it  must  certainly 
have  trusted  Madame  Barbin  implicitly.  Accord- 
ing to  the  neighbours,  she  deserved  the  trust. 
Madame  Fournier  no  doubt  took  on  the  job 
and  abandoned  the  child  as  soon  as  she  could 
conveniently  do  so.  To  receive  the  money 
without  having  to  provide  for  the  child  has 
evidently  appealed  to  her  mind  as  a  method  of 
procedure  more  advantageous  to  herself." 

Barnabas  stopped. 

"  And  how  did  you  find  out  that  the  child's  real 
name  was  Philippa?"  asked  Miss  Mason. 

"  A  woman  named  Madame  Paulet  volunteered 
the  information,"  said  Barnabas.  "  She  told  me 
that  Madame  Barbin  had  said  that  the  child  had 
first  been  christened  Philippa  according  to  the 
rites  of  the  English  Church.  But  being  a  devout 
Catholic,  Madame  Barbin  evidently  didn't  trust  to 
an  English  baptism.  She  had  the  child  re-baptized. 
I  saw  the  priest  who  performed  the  ceremony. 
She  was  then,  he  said,  about  two  months  old. 
Madame  Barbin  had  told  him  that  she  did  not 
know    the    name    of    the    child's    parents.     She 


Various  Matters  159 

received  money  quarterly  for  her  maintenance. 
She  did  tell  him  the  name  of  the  woman  who  sent 
it,  but  as  it  was  told  under  the  seal  of  confession 
he  couldn't  have  given  it  to  me  even  if  he  had 
remembered  it.     But  he  had  forgotten." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"  Then,"  said  Mason  slowly,  "  Pippa  is  a 
Catholic. 

"Yes,"  said  Barnabas.     "You  are  sorry?" 

"  I  am  old-fashioned,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  But 
after  all  it  is  the  same  God  we  worship." 

"  And  if,"  said  Barnabas,  "  she  is  Philippe's 
child,  as  I  believe,  he  would  be  glad.  He  was  a 
devout  Catholic  with  a  strange  mixture  of  Pagan- 
ism. I  believe  that  for  him  the  altars  of  Pan  and 
Christ  were  built  side  by  side." 

Miss  Mason  looked  at  Barnabas  with  a  little 
twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"  You'll  have  to  take  her  to  church,"  she 
said. 

Barnabas  laughed.  "  You  think  that  after  all 
there  may  be  some  advantage  in  her  baptism  ?  " 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  Then  Barnabas 
spoke. 

"  If  Philippe  were  her  father,  and  I  can't  help 
feeling  sure  of  it,  he  must  have  died  some  months 
before  her  birth.  Possibly  before  he  knew  that 
she  was  even  thought  of." 

And    then    Miss    Mason    put    a    question,    one 


160  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

which  had  been  in  the  minds  of  both  of  them 
throughout  that  conversation  at  least,  but,  being  a 
woman,  it  was  she  who  voiced  it. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  quietly,  "  who  was  her 
mother?" 

"  Exactly,"  said  Barnabas. 

And  because  he  had  loved  Philippe  Kostolitz 
he  said  no  more.  But  his  eyes  again  grew  sad. 
For  Barnabas  held  very  straight  views  on  some 
subjects,  and  he  dreaded  lest  the  whiteness  of  his 
friend's  honour  had  been  in  the  smallest  degree 
smirched. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  QUESTION  OF  COLOUR 

PIPPA  became  part  of  the  life  of  the  six  artists 
of  the  courtyard,  and  they  all  wondered,  if 
they  ever  thought  about  the  matter  at  all,  however 
they  had  managed  to  get  on  without  her. 

She  seemed  to  belong  in  some  special  way  to 
Barnabas.  That  fact  was  one  of  mutual  recogni- 
tion. Michael  found  himself  stopping  suddenly 
in  the  middle  of  his  cynical  little  speeches  when 
she  was  present.  It  is  impossible  to  be  cynical 
with  a  child's  eyes  fixed  on  one,  drinking  in  every 
word.  Dan  kept  her  supplied  with  chocolates, 
and  gave  her  a  grey  kitten.  Jasper  painted  her 
a  picture  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  It  was  the  first 
painting  he  had  done  for  weeks  past  without  the 
memory  of  the  house  in  Chiswick  coming  as  an 
interruption  to  his  thoughts.  The  picture,  too, 
held  a  tenderness  not  seen  in  his  previous  paint- 
ings. Paul,  for  a  wonder,  allowed  her  to  see  his 
unfinished  work,  and  found  amusement  in  her 
naive  criticisms.  One  criticism  —  to  be  related 
presently  —  was  somewhat  of  a  revelation.  Alan 
studied  her  deeply,  saying  that  the  innocent 
unfolding  of  a  child's  mind  was  one  of  the  greatest 

161 


1 62  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

marvels  of  creation.  Her  remarks  on  colour 
honestly  interested  him.  And  in  them  Barnabas 
felt  more  than  ever  convinced  that  she  was  the 
child  of  his  friend  Philippe  Kostolitz. 

She  used  to  announce  quite  gravely  that  people 
were  like  colours.  Miss  Mason  she  designated  as 
"couleur  de  rose."  Barnabas  himself  she  said 
was  gold  "  all  sparkling  like  sunshine."  Paul 
she  insisted  was  like  the  purple  light  that  fell 
across  the  river  at  night.  Dan  was  green  like  the 
leaves  of  chrysanthemum  foliage.  Alan  was  the 
colour  of  the  sea.  Michael  was  grey  and  red. 
And  she  refused  to  assign  any  colour  to  Jasper. 
But  when  coaxed  by  Barnabas  she  confessed  it 
was  because  he  was  quite  grey,  and  no  pretty  colour 
at  all. 

One  day  about  the  middle  of  February  Pippa 
lunched  with  Paul.  He  announced  that  he 
wished  her  to  see  the  portrait  of  the  Duchessa  di 
Corleone.  The  Duchessa  herself,  who  had  been 
away  since  Christmas,  was  coming  for  what  would 
probably  be  a  last  sitting  at  two  o'clock  that 
afternoon. 

"Well?"  said  Paul,  standing  near  the  luncheon 
table  while  Pippa  gazed  upon  the  portrait,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  it?  " 

Pippa  wrinkled  up  her  forehead. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly,  and  she  came 
across  to  the  table  looking  at  Paul  with  perplexed 
eyes. 


A  Question  of  Colour  163 

"  Evidently,"  said  Paul,  a  trifle  disappointed, 
"  it  doesn't  meet  with  your  approval." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Pippa  again,  still  looking 
puzzled.  And  then  she  saw  the  luncheon-table. 
"  Chicken  and  meringues  " —  she  rolled  the  "  r  " 
in  her  funny  way  — "  how  lovely !  " 

"  The  lunch,"  said  Paul,  "  unquestionably  appeals 
to  you  far  more  than  the  portrait" 

Pippa  did  not  reply.  But  during  the  meal  she 
kept  looking  from  the  portrait  to  Paul,  as  if  she 
might  find  in  his  face  some  explanation  of  her 
perplexity. 

They  were  drinking  their  coffee,  which  Pippa 
loved,  when  Paul's  man  announced  the  Duch- 
essa. 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  studio  seemed 
suddenly  to  sparkle  with  her  entrance.  Paul 
sprang  to  his  feet.  There  was  a  light  in  his  eyes 
of  which  the  meanest  intelligence  might  have 
recognized  the  interpretation. 

"  I  am  punctual  to  the  moment,"  she  said. 
"  And  how  are  you  ?  It  is  six  weeks  since  we've 
met."     Then  she  saw  Pippa. 

"  And  who,"  she  asked,  "  is  this?  " 

"  Pippa,"  said  Paul  gravely,  "  may  I  introduce 
you  to  the  Duchessa  di  Corleone." 

Pippa  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Pippa  ?  "  queried  the  Duchessa,  with  the  tiniest 
and  most  adorable  lift  of  her  eyebrows. 

"  Just  Pippa,"  said  Paul. 


164  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Sara  sat  down.  "  Finish  your  coffee,"  she  said. 
"  And  may  I  have  a  cup?  " 

Paul  seized  the  kettle.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  would  have  partaken  of  food  or  drink  in  his 
studio.     It  marked,  in  his  mind,  an  epoch. 

"  Don't  make  fresh  coffee,"  she  begged. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure,"  he  said.  "  It  is  one  of  the 
few  achievements  of  which  I  am  justly  proud." 

Pippa  was  gazing  at  the  Duchessa  with  wide 
grey  eyes.     The  perplexity  in  them  had  vanished. 

"  Well,  Pippa,"  asked  Sara,  "  and  what  do  you 
think  of  my  portrait?  " 

"  I  know  now,"  said  Pippa  firmly.  "  Ze  colour 
is  wrong." 

Paul,  who  was  stirring  the  coffee  in  a  jug, 
paused  a  moment  to  look  at  her. 

"  The  colour  ?  "  he  queried. 

Pippa  nodded.  "  The  picture,"  she  said,  "  is 
red.  She " —  Pippa  looked  at  the  Duchessa  — 
"  is  blue.  Oh,  but  very  blue,  like  —  like  zat." 
She  pointed  towards  a  sapphire  vase  on  Paul's 
mantelpiece. 

Paul  and  Sara  looked  at  each  other.  There 
was  the  tiniest  —  just  the  very  tiniest  —  look  of 
triumph  in  Paul's  eyes. 

Sara  laughed  outright.  "  Mr.  Treherne,"  she 
said,  "  aren't  you  longing  to  say  '  I  told  you 
so'?" 

"  I  think,"  replied  Paul,  "  Pippa  has  said  it  for 
me. 


A  Question  of  Colour  165 

Sara  turned  to  Pippa. 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  it  is  the  colour  of  the  dress 
that  is  wrong?" 

Again  Pippa  nodded. 

"  Sometimes  ze  dresses  zey  not  matter,"  she 
said  thoughtfully,  "  but  for  you  ze  real  —  oh,  but 
it  hurt."  She  clasped  her  hands  against  her  heart 
with  a  little  tragic  gesture. 

"  What's  to  be  done  ? "  asked  Sara  as  Paul 
handed  her  the  coffee. 

"  Re-paint  the  dress,  and  the  whole  portrait  if 
necessary,"  he  replied  promptly. 

"Oh,  but  the  time,  and  your  trouble!"  cried 
Sara.  "  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  Besides,  it  was 
my  own  fault,"  she  added  contritely. 

It  struck  neither  of  them  as  odd  that  they 
should  so  implicitly  accept  Pippa's  criticism. 

"  I  shall  only,"  said  Paul,  "  be  doing  what  I 
originally  wished  to  do,  if  you  will  forgive  me  for 
saying  so.  The  question  is  whether  you  will  be 
too  bored  with  further  sittings?" 

A  faint  rose-colour  stole  over  the  ivory  of  the 
Duchessa's  face. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  said  lightly,  "  I  shall 
be  very  happy.  I  have " —  she  paused  the 
merest  fraction  of  a  second  — "  not  been  bored  at 
all." 

She  drank  her  coffee  and  put  down  the  cup. 
Pippa  got  up  from  her  chair.  She  knew  the 
moment  to  make  herself  scarce.     Long  acquaint- 


1 66  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

ance  with  studios  and  the  work  of  artists  had 
taught  her. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  Duchessa. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  said.  "  I  like  you  ver'  much. 
Please  come  to  tea  wis  me  one  day  —  you  and 
Monsieur  Paul." 

"  But,"  said  the  Duchessa,  "  Christopher  is 
coming  for  me  at  half-past  three." 

Paul's  face,  which  had  been  very  gay,  fell 
suddenly.  Christopher's  name  troubled  him.  He 
was  on  such  delightfully  —  for  him  —  easy  terms 
with  the  Duchessa. 

"  But  bring  Monsieur  Christopher  too,"  said 
Pippa  calmly. 

The  Duchessa  looked  at  Paul. 

"  But  where  does  she  live  ? "  she  asked. 
"And  may  we  accept  this  invitation  wholesale?" 

"  By  all  means,"  Paul  assured  her.  "  Pippa 
lives  in  studio  number  seven  with  Miss  Mason, 
don't  you,  Pippa?  And  we  all  invade  that  studio 
at  any  hour.  Miss  Mason  ties  up  cuts,  finds  new 
servants  for  us  when  our  old  ones  get  out  of  hand, 
administers  hot  concoctions  of  her  own  brewing 
when  any  of  us  have  colds,  in  short,  mothers  us 
all  round.  And  Pippa  gives  us  excellent  advice  as 
to  the  colour  of  our  socks  and  ties.  We  really 
don't  care  to  think  of  what  we  were  before  Aunt 
Olive  and  Pippa  took  us  in  hand." 

"  So  you  will  come  ?  "  said  Pippa,  standing  near 
the  door. 


A  Question  of  Colour  167 

Paul  went  over  to  open  it  for  her. 

"  Yes,  we'll  come,"  he  said. 

"  The  Duchessa,  you,  and  Monsieur  Chris- 
topher," said  Pippa  gaily. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Paul,  an  odd  inflexion  in  his 
voice,  "  no  doubt  Monsieur  Christopher  will  come 
too." 

He  held  the  door  open,  and  Pippa  went  out. 

Then  he  came  back  to  the  Duchessa.  She  had 
heard  the  inflexion  in  his  voice,  and  a  little  light 
of  comprehension  had  sprung  to  her  eyes. 

"  Ah ! "  she  breathed  softly  to  herself.  Then 
she  looked  up  at  Paul. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  are  you  ready  for  the 
metamorphosis  —  to  re-paint  me  as  a  blue  lady?" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   LADY    OF   THE    BLUE   DRESS   AGAIN 

AND  so  it  was  that  Pippa's  impulsive  invita- 
tion brought  the  lady  of  the  blue  dress  once 
more  into  Miss  Mason's  surroundings. 

And  with  her  advent  came  one  of  the  brightest 
threads  which  the  Fates  were  using  to  weave  into 
the  hitherto  sombre  pattern  of  her  life.  For 
there  is  never  any  knowing  what  the  Fates  will 
do.  For  years  the  woof  of  their  weaving  may  be 
utterly  grey,  but  if  the  warp  has  kept  firm  and 
strong  they  may  suddenly  take  the  brightest 
colours  —  a  very  crazy  patchwork  of  them  —  and 
weave  them  into  the  most  intricate  and  curious 
pattern  imaginable.  And  because  the  strength 
of  the  warp  of  this  life  pleased  them,  they  were 
now  choosing  the  most  fantastically  coloured 
threads  in  the  weaving  of  the  woof. 

Pippa  told  Miss  Mason  of  the  invitation  she  had 
issued,  and  then  went  to  wash  her  hands  and 
brush  her  hair.  There  was  no  need  to  change  her 
dress.  She  had  already  put  on  her  prettiest  frock 
to  lunch  with  Paul. 

Just  before  half-past  three  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door.  Pippa  looked  up  expectant.  But  it  was 
only  Barnabas. 

1 68 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  Again     169 

"  Hullo ! "  he  said,  coming  in  and  seeing  the 
tea-things  on  the  table  —  Sally  would  be  occupied 
with  hot  cakes  at  the  last  moment  — "  you're 
expecting  company." 

"  The  Duchessa  di  Corleone,  Monsieur  Paul,  and 
Monsieur  Christopher,"  Pippa  told  him. 

"  Shall  I  be  in  the  way  ? "  asked  Barnabas, 
looking  at  Miss  Mason,  "  or  may  I  stay  ?  " 

"  You  are  never  in  the  way,"  said  Miss  Mason 
decisively. 

Pippa  sat  down  near  him  and  slid  one  hand  into 
his.  And  Miss  Mason  looked  at  them,  and  thought 
that  only  a  year  ago,  and  perhaps  at  that  very 
hour,  she  had  been  sitting  in  a  stiff  drawing-room 
furnished  with  hideous  chairs  and  ornamented 
with  wax  flowers  under  glass  shades,  listening  to 
a  long  and  minute  account  of  Miss  Stanhope's  ill- 
health,  sleeplessness,  and  want  of  appetite.  And 
because  the  contrast  was  so  very  great,  her  eyes 
grew  a  trifle  misty  with  unshed  happy  tears,  and 
she  said  a  little  prayer,  that  was  certainly  more 
Catholic  than  her  distinctly  Broad  Church  views 
realized,  for  Miss  Stanhope's  present  welfare. 

And  then  suddenly  voices  were  heard  outside  the 
studio,  a  woman's  voice  which  Miss  Mason  seemed 
to  recognize,  and  a  man  laughing. 

The  next  moment  Sally  opened  the  door.  Her 
eyes  were  round  with  awe. 

"  The    Duchess "     the    next    words    were 

indistinguishable  — "  Mr.  Charlton,  and  Mr.   Tre- 


170  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

heme,"  she  gasped.  Already  in  her  mind  she  was 
telling  Jim  that  she  had  had  the  honour  of  usher- 
ing a  real  live  Duchess  into  the  studio. 

The  Duchessa  di  Corleone  came  into  the  room. 
Then  she  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  astonishment 
and  went  forwards  with  outstretched  hands. 

"  My  fairy  godmother ! "  she  cried.  And  she 
was  nearer  truth  than  she  had  any  idea  as  she  spoke 
the  words. 

"  The  lady  in  the  blue  dress !  "  said  Miss  Mason, 
her  face  radiant  with  pleasure. 

"  So  you  two  know  each  other,"  said  Paul. 

"  We  met  —  when  was  it  —  last  May  ?  "  said 
Sara.  "  May  I  introduce  Mr.  Charlton."  And 
the  man  whom  Miss  Mason  had  seen  in  the  lounge 
of  the  Wilton  Hotel  bowed. 

"  It  is,"  said  the  Duchessa  when  she  was  seated, 
and  after  Barnabas  had  been  introduced,  "  quite 
the  most  unexpected  and  delightful  meeting. 
It  was  not  till  I  was  on  my  way  to  Italy  that  I 
remembered  I  had  never  asked  your  name." 
And  then  she  told  the  others  of  their  first  meeting. 

"  And  has  it  all,"  she  asked,  "  been  just  as 
delightful  as  I  prophesied?" 

"  More  delightful,"  said  Miss  Mason  promptly. 
She  was  looking  at  Christopher.  She  remembered 
the  "  Christopher,  darling,"  and  her  mind,  woman- 
like, was  keen  on  the  secret  of  a  romance. 

Sara  saw  her  glance.  By  a  flash  of  intuition 
she  guessed   something  of  what  was  passing  in 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  Again     171 

Miss  Mason's  mind.  It  gave  her  an  opportunity- 
she  had  been  looking  for  during  the  last  hour  and 
a  half. 

"  Christopher  came  to  fetch  me  that  evening  to 
take  me  to  an  At  Home,  I  remember.  He  is  an 
extraordinarily  useful  person.  I  have  known  him 
since  I  was  ten  years  old." 

The  words  were  addressed  to  Miss  Mason.  They 
were  intended  for  another  occupant  of  the  studio. 

"  I  remember,"  said  Christopher,  "  our  first 
meeting.     It  was,  I  think,  unique." 

"  In  what  way?  "  asked  Paul. 

"The  Duchessa  and  her  parents,"  said  Chris- 
topher, "  had  taken  a  house  in  Devonshire,  at 
Salcombe,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  where  I  then  lived. 
My  mother,  being  of  a  hospitable  turn  of  mind, 
and  also  of  opinion  that  young  men  should  make 
themselves  generally  useful,  sent  me  across  the 
road  to  enquire  of  Captain  and  Mrs.  de  Courcy 
if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  to  them.  I  went. 
I  found  the  Duchessa  seated  on  the  veranda  on 
an  overturned  flower-pot.  She  was  engaged  in 
teaching  "  nap  "  to  three  small  boys  who  had  come 
in  from  the  next  door  garden,  also  with  hospitable 
intentions.  I  found  Mrs.  de  Courcy  disentangling 
silver  forks  from  among  her  evening  frocks;  they 
had  been  packed  among  them  for  safety— ^ — " 

"  Mamma  was  always  under  the  impression 
that  everybody  was  going  to  steal  everything," 
interjected  the'  Duchessa. 


172  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Captain  de  Courcy,"  went  on  Christopher, 
"  was  extracting  tin-tacks  from  the  kitchen  coal- 
scuttle, into  which  they  had  been  upset  by  the 
Duchessa  in  her  frantic  questing  for  playing- 
cards." 

"  And  did  you,"  asked  Miss  Mason  grimly, 
"assist  him?" 

"  I  extracted  two  tacks,"  continued  Christopher 
reminiscently.  "  Then  I  heard  the  Duchessa 
laugh.  Have  you  ever  heard  her?  I  went  out 
on  to  the  veranda.  First  I  looked  at  her,  then 
I  turned  another  flower-pot  upside  down  and  sat 
upon  it.  I  tried  to  instruct  her  in  a  few  of  the 
correct  rules  of  '  nap.'  She  cheated,  I  remember, 
abominably.  She  has,  in  fact,  cheated  throughout 
her  life." 

"  Indeed,  I  have  not,"  said  Sara  indignantly. 
There  was  a  dimple  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

"  You  have,"  said  Christopher  calmly.  "  You 
have  cheated  the  Fates  every  time  they  dealt  the 
cards  of  fortune  against  you.  It's  a  trick  many 
of  us  would  give  our  eyes  to  learn.  They  deal 
her  black  cards,  heigh  presto!  the  Duchessa  has 
changed  them  to  red  ones.  They  deal  her  low 
dull  cards  —  the  Duchessa  holds  aces  and  Kings, 
particularly,"  ended  Christopher  severely, 
"Kings!" 

"  Christopher,"  said  Sara  sweetly,  "  is  given  to 
exaggeration."  She  was  first  the  tiniest  bit 
annoyed.     Christopher's      last      word      savoured 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  Again     173 

somewhat  of  an  accusation  of  flirting.  No  woman 
cares  to  be  accused  of  that  pastime  before  a  man  in 
whom  she  is  feeling  —  well,  certainly  more  than 
just  a  careless  interest.  Besides,  the  music  Paul 
had  been  hearing  during  the  last  ten  weeks  had 
begun  to  reach  the  Duchessa's  ears,  though  as 
yet  quite  faintly.  The  slight  implication  of  flirting 
came  as  a  discord  to  the  tune  it  was  playing. 

"  The  late  Duca  di  Corleone  might  certainly 
be  termed  a  King,"  protested  Christopher,  "  while 
the  Casa  di  Corleone  and  the  coffers  of  centesimi 
are  most  assuredly  many  aces." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  the  Duchessa.  "  You,  however, 
said  '  particularly  Kings.'  " 

"  My  mistake,"  said  Christopher  politely.  "  I 
should  have  said  particularly  aces." 

The  Duchessa  made  a  little  gracious  gesture  of 
forgiveness.  Paul  had  been  stroking  a  small  grey 
kitten  —  gift  of  Dan  to  Pippa  —  during  the  little 
conversation,  and  was  apparently  entirely  engrossed 
in  the  kitten.  But  he  had  heard  every  word,  and 
Christopher's  intimacy  with  the  Duchessa  was  seen 
by  him  in  a  new  and  far  more  satisfactory  light. 

"  But  now,"  said  the  Duchessa,  addressing 
herself  to  Miss  Mason,  "  I  want  to  hear  everything 
you  have  been  doing  since  last  May." 

Miss  Mason  glanced  around  the  studio. 

"  Got  a  studio,"  she  said. 

"  And  also,"  said  Barnabas,  "  she  has  adopted 
six  nephews  and  one  niece." 


174  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Me,"  said  Pippa,  who  was  gazing  at  the 
Duchessa  with  fascinated  eyes. 

Sara  smiled.     She  looked  at  Paul  and  Barnabas. 

"  I  imagine,"  she  said,  "  that  these  are  two  of 
the  nephews.     Where  are  the  others  ?  " 

"  In  their  studios,"  said  Barnabas.  "  Aunt 
Olive  doesn't  keep  all  her  nephews  on  the  premises. 
They  are  the  six  artists  of  the  courtyard." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sara,  with  a  low  laugh,  "  then  you, 
too,  have  a  magic  courtyard." 

"  Where  is  yours  ?  "  asked  Pippa.    • 

And  the  Duchess  told  her,  bringing  the  sunshine 
of  Italy  and  the  gleam  of  golden  oranges  into  the 
studio,  bathing  it  in  their  light  and  colour.  And 
Paul  listened  as  he  listened  always  when  she  spoke, 
loving  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the  magic  of  her 
words. 

Suddenly  as  she  ended  they  heard  the  sound  of 
a  violin.  It  came  from  across  the  courtyard  and 
through  the  partly  open  window. 

"Hush!"  said  the  Duchessa,  and  she  raised  her 
head  listening. 

When  the  last  sad  notes  had  died  away,  she 
looked  across  at  Paul. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  softly,  her  eyes  full 
of  tears,  for  the  sad  bitterness  of  a  troubled  heart 
had  wailed  through  the  music. 

"  Michael  Chester,"  said  Paul  quietly. 

"  And  why,"  asked  the  Duchessa,  "  is  he  not 
taking  London  by  storm  ?  " 


The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Dress  Again     175 

"  Because,"  said  Paul,  "  he  is  a  cripple." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  Duchessa.  She  had  no  need 
to  ask  more,  for  the  music  had  told  her  the  rest. 

After  a  time  she  left,  promising  to  come  again. 
As  she  went  into  the  courtyard  with  Paul  and 
Christopher  she  looked  towards  the  window  from 
whence  the  sounds  of  the  violin  had  proceeded. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  one  day  he  will  play 
for  me." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  DUCHESSA  ENTERS  A  KINGDOM 

FEBRUARY  gave  place  to  a  stormy  March, 
which  ushered  itself  in  angry  and  tempestuous. 
By  the  end  of  the  month  it  was  tired  of  its  anger, 
and  throughout  April  was  like  a  child  promising 
with  smiles  and  tears  to  be  good.  In  May  it  ful- 
filled its  promise.  The  month  was  all  sunshine, 
with  soft  winds  and  blue  skies.  The  parks  were 
alive  with  flowers,  women  donned  their  brightest 
dresses,  and  London  looked  like  a  great  living 
nosegay. 

And  with  the  spring  the  Music  of  the  Heart  was 
playing  so  loudly  for  the  Duchessa  that  she 
wondered  Paul  could  not  hear  it  too,  and  many 
times  she  longed  to  bid  him  listen. 

The  portrait  was  finished,  and  was  in  her 
drawing-room  till  later  in  the  year  when  she  would 
take  it  with  her  to  Italy,  where  it  would  hang  in 
the  gallery  like  a  great  glowing  sapphire  among 
the  sombre  and  haughty  ladies  of  the  House  of 
Corleone. 

She  saw  Paul  from  time  to  time.  He  came  to 
her  flat,  and  she  went  to  his  studio.  And  Michael 
had  been   persuaded   to   come  and  play   for   her. 

176 


The  Duchessa  Enters  a  Kingdom     177 

And  having  come  once  he  was  ready  to  come  again. 
He  made  music  sad  and  gay,  and  in  her  presence 
it  lost  much  of  its  bitterness.  Only  when  he  was 
alone  bitterness  returned,  and  with  it  a  desperate 
and  pathetic  note  of  yearning.  For  with  the 
beauty  of  the  Duchessa  Michael  realized  more 
terribly  that  he  was  not  as  other  men,  though  with 
the  curious  instinct  possessed  by  the  man-creature 
of  hurting  himself,  he  loved  to  be  near  her  and  look 
at  her.  And  in  his  heart  he  laughed  cynically  at 
Paul,  seeing  that  he  had  but  to  put  out  his  hand 
and  grasp  the  wonderful  jewel  of  her  love.  But 
having  been  lonely  all  his  own  life  he  understood 
better  than  anyone  Paul's  hesitation,  even  while  he 
laughed. 

And  one  day  when  the  morning  sunshine  was 
more  radiant  than  ever,  and  the  whole  earth 
seemed  singing  the  Benedicite,  Sara  wandered 
across  one  of  the  bridges  that  span  the  river  and 
found  herself  in  Battersea  Park.  And  the  lilacs 
were  a  mass  of  purple  flowers,  and  the  laburnums 
hanging  in  showers  of  golden  rain,  and  the  tulips 
were  flaunting  their  gaudy  colours,  and  the  birds 
singing  full-throated  songs  of  joy. 

She  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  a  great  bed  of 
golden  tulips  and  looked  at  them.  And  the  colour 
took  her  back  to  Italy,  and  the  courtyard  of  Casa 
di  Corleone  and  the  golden  oranges,  and  she  knew 
now  the  truth  of  Christopher's  statement  that 
one  day  she  would  be  ready  to  forget  them.     And 


178  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

a  little  prayer  rose  up  in  her  heart,  a  prayer  that 
perhaps  hundreds  of  women  were  praying  at  that 
moment  before  flower-decked  altars,  but  which 
Sara  addressed  to  the  bed  of  golden  tulips. 

"  Ah,  Madonna  Santa,"  she  prayed,  in  the  lan- 
guage she  had  learned  to  love,  "let  him  tell  me." 

And  then  she  looked  up  and  saw  Paul  coming 
towards  her. 

"  I  knew  I  should  find  you  here,"  he  said 
quietly,  and  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

And  the  tulips  became  a  mass  of  blurred  gold, 
and  the  Music  of  the  Heart  rang  so  loudly  in  her 
ears  that  for  the  moment  the  song  of  the  birds 
was  drowned. 

"  I  have  waited  a  long  time,"  said  Paul,  "  but 
I  cannot  wait  any  longer.     I  love  you,  Sara." 

She  turned  towards  him,  and  there  was  an 
adorable  little  sob  of  happiness  in  her  voice. 

"  But,  Paul,  dear,"  she  said,  "  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  long  ago  ?  " 

And  Paul  put  both  his  arms  round  her,  and 
knew  that  his  loneliness  was  ended. 

There  are  some  hours  which  pass  like  moments, 
so  swiftly  are  they  borne  on  the  wings  of  joy. 
And  in  those  hours  Paul  and  Sara  told  each  other 
a  hundred  little  things  they  had  quite  possibly 
said  many  times  before,  but  which  had  suddenly 
taken  on  a  new  meaning  and  a  great  tenderness. 
But  for  the  most  part  they  were  silent,  listening 


The  Duchessa  Enters  a  Kingdom     179 

to  the  Music  of  the  Heart,  which  was  playing  now 
in  the  completest  harmony. 

At  last,  however,  they  grew  alive  to  the  fact  that 
the  morning  was  very  far  advanced,  and  that  they 
were  both  hungry.  For,  with  joy  be  it  said,  both 
Paul  and  Sara  were  most  delightfully  human. 

As  she  got  up  from  the  bench  Sara  looked  at  the 
bed  of  tulips. 

"  I  want  one  of  those,"  she  said. 

Regardless  of  the  little  square  board  which 
forbade  the  foot  of  man  to  desecrate  the  grass  with 
his  tread,  Paul  went  across  to  the  flower-bed.  He 
returned  with  a  great  golden  tulip  on  a  long  pale 
green  stem.  He  gave  it  to  her.  She  looked  down 
into  the  shining  petal-chalice. 

"  I  shall  always  love  yellow  tulips  now,"  she 
said. 

Together  they  set  off  homewards,  the  Duchessa 
carrying  the  flower  like  a  queen  carrying  a  golden- 
headed  sceptre. 

And  verily  she  was  a  queen,  for  she  had  that 
morning  entered  her  kingdom  —  the  kingdom  of  a 
man's  heart. 

Of  course,  she  went  back  to  lunch  with  him  at 
the  studio,  and  equally,  of  course,  there  happened 
to  be  no  food  but  bread  and  cheese  and  tomatoes. 
She  refused  to  be  taken  to  a  restaurant,  and 
Paul's  man  was  sent  out  to  buy  spaghetti,  with 


180  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

which  and  the  tomatoes  and  cheese  Sara  made  a 
true  Italian  dish,  cooking  it  on  a  gas  stove. 

And  it  was  when  they  had  eaten  that  and  were 
drinking  their  coffee,  in  the  making  of  which  Paul 
excelled,  that  Sara  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"  Now  I  shall  know  what  is  in  the  letter." 

And  then  she  had  to  tell  Paul  about  the  late 
Duca's  will  and  the  letter.     Paul  listened. 

"  But,  dearest,"  he  said,  when  she  had  ended, 
"  do  you  realize  what  you  are  giving  up?  I  am  a 
poor  man,  and  you  will  lose  everything." 

But  Sara  replied  in  the  words  of  Christopher: 

"  On  the  contrary,  Paul,  dear,  I  gain  every- 
thing." 

And  Paul  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

After  that  they  talked  about  the  future.  No 
one  was  to  be  told  of  their  happiness  yet,  except 
Christopher  and  Paul's  mother.  They  would  keep 
it  a  secret  known  only  to  those  four.  In  June  Sara 
was  going  to  Italy,  when  she  would  take  her  portrait 
and  leave  it  in  the  gallery.  In  July  she  would 
return  for  Paul  to  claim  her  completely. 

"  But  at  least  I  shall  know,"  she  ended,  "  that 
my  portrait  is  in  the  gallery,  and  that  I  love  the 
place  ten  thousand  times  more  than  those  haughty 
ladies  who  will  now,  I  suppose,  look  upon  it  as 
entirely  their  own." 

"And  loving  it  like  that  you  give  it  up?"  said 
Paul. 

"  For  you,"  answered  the  Duchessa  softly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BARNABAS    SCHEMES    WITH    CUPID 

AND  while  the  Music  of  the  Heart  was 
making  incessant  melody  for  Paul  and  the 
Duchessa,  the  Small  Boy  with  drooping  wings  was 
still  sitting  disconsolate  in  the  corner  of  Aurora's 
studio.  His  arrows  being  useless  he  had  tried 
whispering  secrets  to  her,  but  delightful  whispers  of 
flower-scented  nights,  country  lanes  aglow  with 
wild  roses,  kisses,  and  even  cuddling  babies  fell  on 
deaf  ears.  She  heard  nothing  but  the  call  of  the 
false  goddess  whom  she  had  erected  in  the  place 
of  the  glorious  goddess  who  sits  so  near  to  Nature. 

One  day  early  in  June  Aurora  was  in  a  par- 
ticularly dissatisfied  mood.  The  model,  Tilly,  who 
posed  not  only  for  Barnabas,  but  for  many 
other  studios,  had  been  distinctly  rude  that 
afternoon. 

Aurora  had  found  inspiration  lacking,  and  had 
told  Tilly  she  could  go.  It  had  been  the  signal 
for  a  tirade  on  Tilly's  part.  She  had  spoken  her 
mind  freely,  with  contemptuous  words  regarding 
artists  who  achieved  nothing,  and  whose  pictures, 
even  when  completed,  were  so  incomprehensible 
that    they    could    find    no    place    in    any    gallery. 

l8l 


1 82  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Aurora  had  told  Tilly  not  to  come  near  her  studio 
again.  But  her  words  had  held  a  sting  which  hurt. 
Aurora  was  near  tears. 

Then  she  remembered  that  Alan  was  coming  to 
tea  that  afternoon  and  bringing  Barnabas  with 
him.  She  dried  her  tears  on  her  painting-apron 
and  put  the  kettle  on  the  hob. 

And  perhaps  it  was  the  suspicion  of  tears  that 
Barnabas  saw  when  he  and  Alan  arrived,  or  perhaps 
it  was  an  imploring  whisper  from  the  discordant 
Boy,  or  perhaps  it  was  merely  the  sunshine  and  his 
own  exuberant  spirits,  but,  at  any  rate,  he  had, 
what  the  Boy  considered,  a  heaven-born  inspiration. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  suddenly,  addressing  himself 
to  the  square  patch  of  blue  seen  through  skylight, 
"  that  studios  are  distinctly  stuffy  this  weather. 
Let's  all  go  and  paint  out  of  doors  a  bit  —  be 
vagabond  artists."  The  thought  of  Kostolitz  came 
into  his  mind  with  the  words. 

"Permanently?"  asked  Alan,  "or  by  the 
day?" 

"  Oh,  for  about  three  weeks  or  so,"  said 
Barnabas.  "  You,  Aurora,  Dan,  and  me.  I'll 
make  Dan  come  too.  I'll  hire  a  coster  cart  and 
donkey  to  carry  our  painting  materials,  a  few 
provisions,  and  a  small  tent  for  Aurora  to  sleep 
in.  We  three  can  sleep  in  the  open.  Let's," 
ended  Barnabas  slyly,  "  study  Art  in  Nature." 

"  The  symbolism  of  Nature,"  murmured  Alan 
dreamily. 


Barnabas  Schemes  with  Cupid        183 

"  Or  Nature  without  the  symbolism,"  said 
Aurora.  "  I'm  tired  of  symbolism."  Her  voice 
was  almost  petulant. 

The  Small  Boy  in  the  corner  perked  up. 
Barnabas  grinned  gently. 

"  To-day,"  he  announced,  "  is  Tuesday.  Let  us 
start  on  Thursday." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aurora  firmly,  "  I  want  to  get 
away  from  everything."  Her  eyes  took  in  the 
studio  and  her  own  High  Art  productions  in  a 
comprehensive  sweep.  "  For  a  time,"  she  added, 
seeing  that  Alan  was  looking  reproachful. 

Barnabas  promulgated  a  few  further  ideas  on 
the  subject,  and  they  all  three  studied  a  large 
cycling  map  of  Aurora's  which  had  small  country 
lanes  plainly  marked  on  it. 

"  Bring  the  map,"  said  Barnabas,  as  he  rose  to 
take  his  leave.  "  And  Thursday,  remember,  at 
my  studio,  at  ten  o'clock." 

He  went  round  to  see  Miss  Mason  that  evening  to 
tell  her  of  the  plan.  Pippa,  in  a  purple  dressing- 
gown,  listened  entranced.  She  had  been  given  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  grace  from  bed  on  account  of 
Barnabas'  arrival. 

"  So,"  ended  Barnabas,  "  on  Thursday  at  ten 
o'clock  we  start  off  to  study  Nature.  I've  already 
hired  a  donkey  and  cart.  To-morrow  I  buy  a  tent 
and  a  few  other  things." 

Pippa  gave  a  huge  sigh. 

"How    lovely!"    she    said.     "Just    you,    and 


184  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Monsieur  Dan,  and  Monsieur  Alan,  and  Made- 
moiselle Aurora.  Just  you  four.  I  s'pose  ze  tent 
will  be  quite  tiny.  Only  just  big  enough  for 
Mademoiselle  Aurora.  Not  a  teeny  bit  more  room 
in  it.  Not  even  enough  room  for  Mimsi " — 
—  Mimsi  was  the  grey  kitten  — "  and  most  cer- 
tainly not  enough  room  for  —  for  me." 

Barnabas  laughed.  He  looked  at  Miss  Mason. 
The  idea  conveyed  by  Pippa  in  this  flagrant  hint 
had  occurred  to  him. 

Pippa  heard  something  in  the  laugh  that  made 
her  heart  beat  hopefully. 

"  I  am,"  she  said  reflectively,  "  not  very  big. 
Or,"  she  continued,  "  a  cart  would  be  a  very  nice 
ting  to  sleep  in.  I  wonder  what  it  feels  like  to 
sleep  in  a  cart." 

"  Time  you  went  to  bed,"  said  Miss  Mason 
grimly. 

Pippa  got  up  reluctantly.  "  Bon  soir,  Monsieur 
Barnabas,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh.  "  I  wonder 
if  Mademoiselle  Aurora  can  darn  holes  in  men's 
socks.  Madame  Barbin  taught  me  to  darn  —  oh, 
but  to  darn  very  beautifully.  Much  walking  will 
no  doubt  make  many  holes." 

Barnabas  telegraphed  a  question  to  Miss  Mason. 

"You'd  get  tired  walking,"  said  Miss  Mason 
gruffly. 

Pippa  looked  dubious.  "  I  am  not  ver'  'eavy. 
I  could  perhaps  ride  in  ze  cart  just  sometimes. 


Barnabas  Schemes  with  Cupid        185 

Besides,"  she  ended  hopefully,  "  it  is  ver'  good  to 
be  tired.     One  sleep  well  at  night." 

"  Well,  go  to  bed  and  sleep  well  now,"  said 
Miss  Mason. 

Pippa  sighed  again  heavily. 

"  Good  night,  Aunt  Oleeve,  good  night,  Mon- 
sieur Barnabas."     She  went  away  sorrowfully. 

"Do  you  think  she  might  come?"  said  Barna- 
bas.    "  I'd  take  great  care  of  her." 

"  You'll  tire  her  out,  and  she'll  be  a  trouble  to 
you,"  said  Miss  Mason.  She  was  hating  the 
thought  of  parting  with  the  child. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Barnabas.  "  The  question  is, 
will  you  spare  her  ?  " 

Miss  Mason  laughed. 

"  You've  a  genius  for  hitting  the  truth  full  on  the 
head,  Barnabas.  I  suppose  I  must.  She'd  adore 
it,  and  the  open-air  life  would  be  excellent  for 
her." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  And  the  tour  in  the 
donkey-cart  was  to  be  fraught  with  a  curious  little 
incident  which  was  to  lead  infinitely  further  than 
anyone  could  imagine. 

Thursday  dawned  bright  and  sunny  under  a 
cloudless  sky. 

The  donkey-cart  was  outside  Barnabas'  studio, 
and  Pippa  in  a  green  dress  and  rough  straw  hat 
trimmed  with  daisies  was  feeding  the  animal  with 


1 86  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

sugar.  She  had  instantly  christened  him  Pegasus, 
for  though  he  was  not  a  winged  horse  he  was  most 
unquestionably  a  magic  steed. 

Painting  materials,  a  hamper  of  provisions,  and 
the  tent  were  packed  into  the  cart.  Pippa  climbed 
in.  Seated  on  the  luggage  she  held  the  reins. 
Barnabas  took  hold  of  the  bridle. 

The  men  were  in  tweed  knickerbocker  suits  and 
soft  felt  hats.  Aurora  was  in  a  blue  serge  skirt, 
a  white  blouse,  scarlet  tie,  and  a  blue  sun-bonnet. 
She  felt  that  the  attire  was  suited  to  the  part  of  a 
vagabond. 

The  other  three  artists  of  the  courtyard  were 
there  watching  them  and  offering  advice.  Paul, 
in  his  own  happiness,  felt  in  entire  sympathy  with 
their  gaiety.  Jasper  and  Michael  felt  somehow 
rather  out  of  things. 

*  You  ought  to  have  had  the  cart  meet  you 
somewhere,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  You'll  be 
mobbed." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Barnabas  cheerfully. 
"  Dan's  size  is  protection  enough  for  the  lot  of 
us.  Good-bye,  Aunt  Olive.  Ta-ta,  you  fellows. 
We're  off  to  study  Nature.  We'll  write  our  com- 
ments to  you  and  post  the  letters  at  country  post 
offices." 

Pippa  flicked  the  whip  and  Pegasus  walked 
gravely  out  of  the  courtyard.  And  the  little  faun 
in  the  garden  played  a  gay  tune  on  his  pipe.     The 


Barnabas  Schemes  with  Cupid        187 

youthful  spirits  of  the  departing  cavalcade  appealed 
to  him. 

And  Miss  Mason  went  back  to  her  studio,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  a  year  ago  she  felt  a  little 
lonely,  for  both  Barnabas  and  Pippa  had  gone,  and 
the  Duchessa  di  Corleone  was  on  her  way  to  Italy 
with  the  portrait. 

But  the  Fates  had  another  thread  in  readiness, 
and  she  was  not  to  feel  lonely  long. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  INTERFERENCE  OF  A  FAIRY  GODMOTHER 

PIPPA  had  been  wont  to  haunt  Jasper's  studio 
a  good  deal.  His  pictured  saints  appealed  to 
her  imagination.  She  loved  the  brilliance  of  their 
robes  and  the  gold  of  their  backgrounds. 

Colour  appealed  to  her,  as  already  seen, 
enormously,  though  she  had  no  power  with  brush 
or  pencil  herself.  If  she  was  ever  to  find  expres- 
sion for  the  thoughts  and  fancies  which  filled  her 
brain  she  would  possibly  one  day  find  it  in  writing. 
Beauty  of  language  already  moved  her  profoundly, 
and  she  would  listen  by  the  hour  to  anyone  reading 
poetry  aloud. 

Jasper  missed  the  child  almost  more  than  Miss 
Mason  did.  He  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  fill  up 
the  gap  she  left  in  his  life,  and  his  old  restlessness 
in  a  measure  returned.  He  took  to  dropping  in 
at  Miss  Mason's  studio  at  odd  hours,  in  order, 
so  it  seemed,  to  talk  about  Pippa,  though  he  would 
often  sit  moody  and  silent.  He  would  stare  at  the 
picture  of  Pippa  wrapped  in  scarlet  silk,  her  arms 
round  the  faun's  neck,  which  picture  Barnabas  had 
painted  about  a  month  previously,  and  which  now 
hung  in  Miss  Mason's  studio. 

188 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     189 

And  one  evening  after  looking  at  it  for  a  long 
time  he  made  a  sudden  remark  —  a  remark  that 
seemed  forced  from  him. 

"If  Stella  had  lived  she  would  have  been  nearly 
the  same  age  as  Pippa." 

Miss  Mason  looked  up  quickly. 

"Who,"  she  asked,  "was  Stella?" 

"  My  little  girl,"  said  Jasper  shortly. 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Mason.  And  then  she  added 
quietly,  "  and  your  wife  died  too?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jasper,  "  she  is  alive." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  studio  window  was 
wide  open,  and  the  evening  sunlight  was  stream- 
ing in.  From  one  of  the  trees  in  the  garden  a 
thrush  was  singing  a  song  of  love  and  happiness. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Mason  suddenly,  "  you 
would  care  to  tell  me  about  it." 

And  Jasper  told  her.  He  told  her  the  whole 
story,  omitting  nothing;  though,  wonderful  to 
relate,  making  no  excuses  for  himself. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  ended,  "  that  Bridget  lost  all 
interest  in  life,  and  I  was  always  wanting  her  to 
be  something  she  had  lost  the  power  of  being.  And 
I  got  disheartened  because  she  could  not  adapt 
herself  to  my  pattern." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Mason  did  not  reply.  She 
did  not  care  to  say  that  it  had  been  largely  Jasper's 
fault  that  his  wife  had  lost  interest  in  life.  After 
a  moment  she  spoke  slowly. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  it  is  always  dangerous  to 


190  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

try  and  cut  people  to  our  own  pattern.  We  are 
so  terribly  apt  to  cut  the  cords  of  love  first." 

"  I  know,"  said  Jasper,  "  and  now  it  is,  as  she 
said,  too  late." 

"  It  is  never  too  late,"  said  Miss  Mason  ener- 
getically.    "  Why  don't  you  go  and  see  her  ?  " 

"  I  gave  her  my  word  of  honour  that  I  would 
not." 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Miss  Mason.  "  It  is  sometimes 
infinitely  more  honourable  to  break  one's  word 
than  to  keep  it.  This  is  a  case  in  point.  Do  you 
still  care  for  your  wife?  " 

Jasper  hesitated.  "  I  care  for  my  memory  of 
her  as  she  was  when  I  first  married  her  —  before 
the  child  died.  I  know  after  that  at  first  I  was 
disgusted.  But  that  passed,  especially  later  when 
I  saw  less  of  her.  Then  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  I  wanted  to  get  back  to  the  old  footing. 
Somehow  it  seemed  impossible.  Before  I  saw  her 
I  felt  I  loved  her,  but  the  sight  of  her  untidiness 
and  the  sordidness  of  the  surroundings  killed  it. 
It  would  be  killed  again  if  I  saw  her  now.  It's  no 
use  pretending  otherwise." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  her  out  of  her  surround- 
ings then  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mason. 

■  Jasper  looked  up  quickly.  "  It's  no  use,"  he 
said.  "  I  love  her  now,  but  if  I  went  down  there 
the  feeling  would  die  away.  When  I  see  her 
slovenly  and  untidy  it  seems  to  kilL  my  affection. 
I  can't  help  it.     Even  when  I  was  a  child  I  could 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     191 

not  eat  the  food  I  most  liked  if  it  were  served  in  a 
careless  fashion.  I  have  honestly  tried  to  fight 
the  feeling.  It  is,  however,  part  of  my  physical 
nature,  and  I  can't  rid  myself  of  it."  Jasper's  voice 
was  quite  humble  and  genuine. 

Miss  Mason's  brain  was  working  rapidly.  "  I 
suppose  Chiswick  is  rather  a  commonplace 
neighbourhood,"  she  remarked.  "  Foolish  of  you 
to  choose  it  in  the  first  instance.  Where  did  you 
say  the  house  was?"  The  question  was  put 
indifferently. 

Jasper  mentioned  the  street  and  number.  Miss 
Mason  appeared  hardly  \<h  have  heard  it.  She 
seemed  engrossed  in  her  own  thoughts. 

Jasper  stayed  a  little  longer  in  the  studio.  It 
was,  in  a  sense,  a  comfort  to  have  spoken  of  the 
story,  and  yet  it  had  brought  the  memory  of  the 
last  seven  years  almost  too  vividly  before  his 
mind. 

When  he  got  up  to  go  Miss  Mason  held  out  her 
hand. 

"Good  night,"  she  said.  "Don't  feel  too 
miserable.  Things  often  turn  out  better  than  one 
expects." 

And  when  he  had  gone  she  sat  a  long  time  in 
her  big  chair,  her  brain  full  of  the  wildest  and 
most  exciting  plans,  in  which  she  was  establishing 
herself  as  proxy  to  the  Fates.  And  the  Fates 
laughed,  and  gave  the  threads  of  two  lives 
temporarily  into  her  hands  for  her  own  weaving. 


1 92  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

The  next  morning  Miss  Mason  told  Sally  to 
order  a  taxi  to  be  at  the  studio  at  eleven  o'clock. 

"If  I'm  not  taken  there  quickly,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  my  courage  will  fail  me,  and  I  shall  come 
home  again." 

And  she  went  over  in  her  mind  many  sentences 
she  had  been  carefully  preparing  during  the  long 
hours  of  a  sleepless  night. 

One  of  them  began  rather  like  an  old-fashioned 
letter.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Merton,  I  have  ventured 
to  call  upon  you  in  order  to  discuss  a  matter  I 
am  sure  you  must  have  very  much  at  heart, 
namely,  the  welfare, -jof  your  husband  Jasper 
Merton."  She  had  repeated  it  a  good  many  times 
to  make  sure  she  had  it  verbatim. 

There  were  other  phrases  such  as,  "  Pardon 
what  may  appear  an  unwarrantable  interference 
on  my  part."  And,  "  The  mutual  interest  we  both 
must  feel  in  one  for  whom  you  have  a  wifely  love, 
and  I  the  affection  of  friendship." 

She  felt  she  had  them  all  glibly  on  her  tongue, 
when  the  hoot  of  the  taxi  outside  the  studio  warned 
her  of  its  arrival. 

"  If  I  am  not  back  to  lunch,  Sally,"  said  Miss 
Mason,  with  the  air  of  one  embarking  on  some 
dangerous  enterprise  from  which  she  might  never 
return,  "  run  out  and  buy  a  chop  for  yourself,  and 
we  can  have  the  steak  this  evening.  And  give 
Mimsie  a  piece  of  boiled  whiting  and  a  saucerful 
of  milk." 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     193 

She  got  into  the  taxi,  tightly  clutching  her 
black  satin  bag,  and  sat  down  in  one  corner.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  driven  in  a  taxi,  and 
she  felt  a  trifle  nervous.  But  for  her  desire  to 
arrive  at  her  destination  before  she  had  time  to 
change  her  mind  about  going,  she  would  un- 
doubtedly have  taken  a  four-wheeler. 

The  speed  of  the  vehicle  seemed  excessive,  but 
as  other  taxis  passed  them  going  at  an  even  greater 
rate,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  hope  for  the  best. 
She  did,  however,  put  up  a  small  mental  prayer 
for  safety. 

In  spite  of  the  rate  at  which  they  were  travelling 
they  seemed  a  long  time  in  getting  to  their 
destination.  At  last  Miss  Mason  began  to  feel 
uneasy.  She  had  heard  of  people  being  kidnapped 
and  murdered  on  account  of  their  money,  and 
though  she  had  only  put  ten  shillings  worth  of 
silver  and  one  sovereign  in  her  purse,  the  chauffeur 
might  think  her  worth  infinitely  more. 

She  decided  to  ask  him  how  much  further  they 
had  to  go.  She  noticed  a  long  tube  hanging  from 
the  front  window.  It  was  no  doubt  a  whistle. 
She  took  it  up  and  blew  gently  down  it.  There 
was  no  sound.  She  collected  the  whole  force  of 
her  lungs  and  blew  violently.  The  chauffeur, 
feeling  a  sudden  and  unpleasant  draught  at  the 
back  of  his  neck,  looked  round.  He  saw  Miss 
Mason  purple  in  the   face   from  her  efforts,  and 


194  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

the  speaking  tube  at  her  lips.  Fearing  apoplexy 
he  stopped  the  taxi  and  came  to  the  door. 

"  Wot  is  it,  mum  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  we  were  near  the 
address  I  gave  you  ? "  she  said  breathlessly. 
*  I  think  this  whistle  must  be  out  of  order,  I  can't 
make  it  sound." 

The  chauffeur  grunted.  "  That  ain't  no  bloomin' 
whistle-pipe.  That  there's  a  speakin'  toob,"  he 
remarked  scornfully.  "  Be  at  Oxford  Road  in 
five  minutes  now." 

He  shut  the  door  with  a  bang  and  climbed  back 
to  his  seat. 

"Whistle!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Whistle! 
Thought  there  was  a  bloomin'  draught.  The  old 
party  must  'ave  fair  busted  'erself." 

Miss  Mason  sank  back  in  her  corner  and  began 
to  repeat  the  sentences  in  a  rapid  whisper. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  the  taxi  stopped  before 
a  small  house  divided  from  the  pavement  by  a 
gravel  plot. 

The  chauffeur  got  down  and  opened  the  taxi 
door. 

"  'Ere  y'are,  mum,"  he  said. 

Miss  Mason  got  out,  paid  the  man,  crossed  the 
gravel  plot,  and  mounted  the  steps.  Her  heart  was 
beating  uncomfortably  fast. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Merton  at  home  ? "  she  asked  of 
Emma,  who  opened  the  door. 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     195 

"  Yes'm.  Will  you  come  inside'm?"  She 
showed  Miss  Mason  into  the  dismal  little  parlour. 
"  What  name  shall  I  say,  'm  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Merton  won't  know  my  name,"  said 
Miss  Mason  desperately.  "  But  ask  her  if  she  will 
speak  to  me  for  a  few  moments." 

Emma  left  the  room  breathing  heavily  as  she 
moved,  and  Miss  Mason  sat  very  upright  on  the 
little  sofa,  her  hands  still  clutching  the  black 
satin  bag.  Her  eyes  took  in  the  whole  room. 
She  saw  the  dingy  and  torn  tablecloth,  the  rather 
dirty  chintz  covers  to  the  chairs,  and  the  dis- 
tinctly dirty  muslin  curtains  to  the  windows. 
A  mantel-border  which  covered  the  chimney- 
piece  had  come  unnailed  at  one  side,  and  was 
hanging  in  an  untidy  festoon.  The  carpet  was 
faded,  and  crumbs  scattered  from  the  last  meal 
were  below  one  of  the  chairs.  There  was  a  large 
Japanese  fan  in  the  fender  before  the  empty 
grate;  its  edges  were  broken  and  torn.  It  was 
also  considerably  fly-marked.  Miss  Mason  could 
understand  Jasper's  feelings  very  well.  She  saw 
what  the  place  must  mean  to  a  man  of  his 
fastidious  instincts.  It  might  be  that  he  was 
largely  to  blame  that  it  had  ever  reached  such  a 
state,  but  having  reached  it  it  was  almost  un- 
avoidable that  he  should  shrink  from  it. 

A  step  on  the  stairs  made  her  start.  She 
clutched    more    tightly    at    the    bag    and    began 


196  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

murmuring  "  unwarrantable  intrusion,"  "  mutual 
.nterest,"  in  a  spasmodic  fashion,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  door. 

Suddenly  it  opened,  and  a  woman  in  a  rather 
soiled  white  dress  came  into  the  room.  She  made 
Miss  Mason  think  of  a  faded  lily. 

The  woman  looked  with  something  like  amaze- 
ment at  the  odd  figure  in  the  mushroom  hat,  grey 
dress,  and  wide  white  linen  collar,  seated  on  the 
sofa  clutching  a  black  satin  bag. 

Miss  Mason  got  to  her  feet.  "  My  dear,"  she 
began,  but  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost.  "  I'm 
downright  nervous,"  said  Miss  Mason,  with  one 
of  her  gruff  little  laughs,  "  and  you'll  think  me  an 
interfering  old  fool,  but  I  was  bound  to  come." 

Bridget  looked  at  her.  "  There  isn't,"  she  said 
with  a  note  of  anxiety  in  her  voice,  "  anything 
wrong  with  Jasper?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Mason  quickly,  "  but  I  was 
talking  to  him  last  night." 

"Ah!"  said  Bridget. 

"  And "  said  Miss  Mason,  and  stopped.     It 

seemed  entirely  impossible  now  to  put  her  ideas 
into  words.  It  is  one  thing  to  have  marvellous 
and  fairy-tale  schemes  in  one's  mind,  and  plan  all 
kinds  of  wonderful  arrangements  during  the  magic 
hours  of  the  night.  It  is  quite  another  to  find 
words  for  them  in  broad  daylight  and  in  a  rather 
sordid  little  parlour,  especially  when  they  seemed 
to  resolve  themselves  into  the  rather  impertinent 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     197 

statement  that  Jasper  would  love  his  wife  if  she 
brushed  her  hair.  It  is  hardly  a  suggestion  one 
can  make  in  cold  blood  to  a  complete  stranger.  "  I 
just  came,"  ended  Miss  Mason  helplessly. 

She  looked  through  the  window  wondering  how 
she  could  best  make  her  escape,  and  wishing  with 
all  her  heart  that  she  had  kept  the  taxi. 

It  was  Bridget  herself  who  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  Jasper  told 
you  our  story  —  it's  a  sordid  little  story,  isn't  it  — 
and  you  wanted  to  help?" 

Miss  Mason  nodded.  Something  in  Bridget's 
eyes  made  her  own  fill  with  tears.  She  forgot  her 
desire  to  run  away.  She  felt  that  she  was  near  a 
dumb  animal  in  pain. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Bridget,  "  what  Jasper  told 
you?" 

Very  stumblingly  Miss  Mason  gave  her  some 
idea  of  the  conversation.  She  wanted  her  to 
know  the  truth,  yet  dreaded  to  hurt  her  more  than 
necessary. 

"  Then  Jasper  does  care  a  little,"  said  Bridget 

wonderingly.     "  But    all    this "     She    looked 

round  the  dingy  room.  "  What  was  your  idea 
when  you  came  to  me  ?  "  she  asked  simply. 

"  Great  interference  on  my  part,  no  doubt," 
said  Miss  Mason  gruffly.  "  Began  to  make  up  a 
plan.  Thought  if  he  was  to  see  you  again  in  a 
pretty  room  and  a  pretty  frock "  she  stopped. 

Bridget     glanced     down     at    her     own    dress. 


198  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"Yes?"  she  said  again.  She  had  reddened 
slightly. 

"  Can  tell  me  to  go  if  you  like,"  said  Miss 
Mason.     "  Had  no  business  to  come.     But  thought 

My  dear,  I  just  planned  to  take  you  to  a 

pretty  room  and  bring  Jasper  to  you." 

Bridget  looked  at  her.  "  I  don't  know  who  you 
are,"  she  said  impulsively,  "  nor  anything  about 
you.     But  you  are  a  dear." 

"Then  you're  not  angry?"  asked  Miss  Mason. 

"  I  want,"  said  Bridget,  in  a  muffled  voice,  "  to 
cry.  But  I'm  not  going  to.  What  were  your 
plans?     I'm  sure  you'd  made  some." 

And  then  Miss  Mason  unfolded  all  the  schemes 
she  had  planned  during  the  night  hours.  They 
were  of  a  little  flat  somewhere  in  Chelsea  not  too 
far  from  the  studios.  The  drawing-room  was  to 
be  furnished  in  shades  of  brown  and  cream,  and 
it  was  to  be  filled  with  roses  in  slender  glass  vases 
and  china  bowls.  And  there  was  to  be  a  woman 
among  the  flowers,  and  Jasper  coming  in  to  find 
her. 

"  But  I  haven't  the  money  for  that,"  said 
Bridget.     "  And  I  can't  ask  Jasper  for  any  more." 

"  But  I  have,"  said  Miss  Mason  bluntly.  "  My 
dear,  I'm  an  old  woman.  Is  it  worth  while  to  you, 
for  your  husband's  sake,  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of 
arranging  it  ?  " 

Bridget  bit  her  lip.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  no 
words  would  come. 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     199 

"  Don't  try  to  say  anything,"  said  Miss  Mason 

"I  —  I "  began    Bridget.     And,    somehow, 

the  next  moment  she  was  down  on  her  knees  by 
Miss  Mason,  who  was  soothing  her  with  little  odd 
articulations  and  pattings  as  she  had  soothed  Pippa 
one  night  when  she  had  awakened  from  a  bad 
dream. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Bridget  at  last,  sitting  up  and 
pushing  back  her  hair  from  her  face,  "  but  it's  all 
been  so  lonely.  At  times  I've  felt  that  just  for 
something  to  do  I  could  be  bad  —  really  bad,  you 
know.  Anything  for  excitement,  and  to  forget  my 
own  thoughts.  At  first  I  used  to  hate  myself. 
Then  I  tried  to  hate  Jasper,  but  I  didn't  —  I  didn't. 
I  —  I  loved  him  all  the  time.  You  see,  he  gave  me 
my  baby.  But  I  was  so  lonely  and  miserable  I 
wanted  to  be  wicked,  only  I  remembered  my  baby, 
and " 

"  I  know,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason. 

"Have  you  been  lonely?"  asked  Bridget. 

"  Utterly  lonely,  my  dear,  for  fifty-five  years 
at  least,  ever  since  my  parents  died.  And  only 
women  can  understand  the  loneliness  of  women. 
Men  have  their  pipes,  and  they  can  always  swear 
a  little,  which  must  at  times  be  an  enormous  help." 

"  But  you're  not  lonely  now  ?  "  asked  Bridget. 

Miss  Mason  smiled,  a  little  glad  smile.  "  My 
dear,  I  am  so  utterly  happy  now  that  I  long  for 
every  one  else  to  be  happy.  It  was  that  that  made 
me  so  sorry  for  you  and  Jasper,  and  made  me 


200  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

want  to  come  and  see  you.  And  now  I  want  you 
to  come  and  have  some  luncheon  with  me  some- 
where —  you'll  have  to  tell  me  where  —  and  then 
we'll  go  and  look  at  flats." 

Bridget  got  up  from  the  floor. 

"  It's  all  too  wonderful,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
don't  know  that  I've  the  right  to  let  you  help 
me. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Mason  gruffly.  "  Might 
just  as  well  say  I've  no  right  to  ask  you  to  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  doing  a  little  thing  like  this; 
but  I'm  going  to  ask  you,  all  the  same.  Now  go 
and  put  on  a  hat." 

Bridget  left  the  room.  In  a  few  moments  she 
came  down  in  a  dark  blue  linen  coat  and  skirt,  and 
a  black  straw  hat  swathed  with  rose-coloured  silk. 
She  had  brushed  her  hair  and  looked  a  different 
being. 

"Can  we  get  a  four-wheeler?"  asked  Miss 
Mason.     "  Came  in  a  taxi,  but  didn't  enjoy  it." 

"  There's  a  train  and  an  omnibus,"  said  Bridget, 
"that  will  take  us  to  Notting  Hill  Gate,  and  we 
can  get  any  amount  of  cabs  from  there." 

So  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Miss  Mason 
mounted  to  the  top  of  an  omnibus  and  thoroughly 
enjoyed  it.  She  peered  over  garden  walls  as  they 
passed,  and  did  her  best  to  look  through  windows, 
and  made  up  a  good  many  quite  fascinating  stories 
about  the  inhabitants  of  the  houses  —  stories  very 
different   from   the   mental   pictures   of  the   very 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     201 

same  lives  that  Jasper  had  been  wont  to  paint. 
In  Miss  Mason's  stories  there  was  always  a 
mother  —  a  mother  clasping  the  downy  head  of  a 
new-born  baby  to  her  heart;  a  mother  watching 
the  first  toddling  steps  of  a  tiny  child;  a  mother 
hearing  a  little  white-nightgowned  figure  lisp  a 
childish  prayer.  The  father  in  these  stories  —  of 
course  there  was  a  father  —  took  an  extraordinarily 
back  seat. 

Her  thoughts  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
question  from  Bridget. 

"  How  did  Jasper  come  to  tell  you  our  story  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  We  were  looking  at  a  picture  of  Pippa," 
replied  Miss  Mason  quietly,  "  and  he  said  that 
little  Stella  would  have  been  nearly  the  same  age." 

Bridget  nodded.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent. 
Then  she  spoke  again.  "  Who,"  she  asked,  "  is 
Pippa?" 

"  My  little  girl,"  said  Miss  Mason  promptly. 
"  At  least,  she  came  to  me  out  of  the  Nowhere  last 
December,  and  now  she's  mine." 

"  A  Christmas  gift,"  said  Bridget. 

Miss  Mason  nodded.  "  I  like  to  hear  you  say 
that,"  she  said.  "  I  gave  Pippa  her  first  Christmas 
tree.     It  was  my  first  for  the  matter  of  that." 

And  then  they  fell  to  talking  about  Pippa  and 
Stella,  after  the  fashion  of  women  who  love 
children,  each  capping  the  other  with  a  new 
anecdote.     But  after  a  time  Miss  Mason  was  left 


202  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

to  do  most  of  the  talking,  for  Bridget  suddenly 
found  her  voice  fail  her. 

"  Pippa,"  said  Miss  Mason,  "  has  true  inventive 
genius.  One  night  last  January  I  told  her  to  say 
her  prayers  before  she  got  into  bed.  She  an- 
nounced that  she'd  already  said  them.  'Where?' 
I  asked.  '  In  my  baf,'  she  replied,  '  much  warmer.' 
I  couldn't  help  feeling  there  was  a  good  deal  to  be 
said  in  favour  of  the  bathroom  on  a  cold  winter's 
night.  But  all  the  same,  I  told  her  she  was 
irreverent  to  say  her  prayers  lying  down.  I  knew 
she'd  said  them  that  way.  She  always  ends  her 
ablutions  with  lying  full  length  in  the  water. 
Whereupon  she  remarked  in  an  aggrieved  voice, 
*  Turned  over  on  my  front,  anyhow.' " 

"  True  prostration  in  prayer,"  laughed  Bridget. 
"  I  shall  love  Pippa." 

Already  it  was  almost  impossible  to  believe 
Bridget  to  be  the  same  apathetic  woman  who, 
slovenly  and  untidy,  had  entered  the  dingy  little 
parlour  barely  two  hours  previously.  After  lunch 
and  on  the  way  to  some  flats  in  Beaufort  Street 
she  was  almost  radiant. 

"  We  will  put  things  through  as  quickly  as  we 
can,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  I  hate  loitering  when 
one  has  set  out  on  a  piece  of  business."  And  in 
her  heart  she  was  longing  to  get  Bridget  away 
from  the  dismal  surroundings  of  her  present 
home  without  a  moment's  delay.  She  would  have 
liked  to  take  her  to  her  own  studio,  only  there  was. 


Interference  of  a  Fairy  Godmother     203 

no  second  bedroom,  and  also  Jasper  would  have 
seen  her. 

After  a  little  search  Miss  Mason  decided  on  a 
flat  she  thought  would  do.  It  was  on  the  third 
floor,  and  consisted  of  a  dining-room,  a  drawing- 
room,  four  bedrooms,  a  servant's  room,  a  bath- 
room, and  kitchen. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mason. 
"  It's  for  you  to  say  as  you'll  be  living  in  it." 

"  It's  heavenly,"  said  Bridget  ecstatically,  "  but 
really  there  are  an  unnecessary  number  of  rooms." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Mason  firmly.  "  I  hope 
you'll  be  here  a  long  time,  and  —  one  never 
knows,"  she  ended  significantly.  Which  little 
speech  caused  Bridget  to  blush  crimson. 

"  The  rent,"  said  Miss  Mason,  "  is  my  affair  for 
the  first  year,  at  all  events,  till  you've  got  rid  of 
the  house  in  Chiswick.  And  the  furniture  will 
be  my  wedding  present,  as  I  didn't  happen  to 
know  you  when  the  ceremony  took  place." 

And  Bridget,  her  eyes  full  of  happy  tears,  put 
her  arms  round  Miss  Mason  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  HEART  OF  NATURE 

DURING  the  next  three  weeks  the  two  con- 
spirators were  wildly  busy.  Money  is  a  key 
which  smooths  many  difficulties,  and  the  path 
before  them  was  triumphantly  easy. 

Jasper  found  Miss  Mason  a  little  hard  to  under- 
stand during  these  days.  She  had  a  way  of 
looking  at  him  and  then  giving  vent  to  odd  little 
chuckles  of  laughter.  He  hoped  she  was  not 
becoming  childish. 

She  received  several  letters  from  the  donkey 
tourists.  One,  received  about  the  tenth  day,  told 
her  that  another  of  her  schemes  was  on  the  way  to 
be  started. 

"  We  are,"  wrote  Barnabas,  "  enjoying  our- 
selves immensely.  The  weather  is  glorious,  and 
Pegasus  a  model  of  well-behaved  donkeyness. 
He  certainly  deserves  wings,  even  though  he 
hasn't  got  them.  But  I  heard  Pippa  telling  him 
in  a  consoling  voice  the  other  day  that  when  he 
reached  heaven  he'd  be  provided  with  a  pair  of 
beautiful  white  ones.  I  fancy  she  sees  in  herself 
a  female  Belerophon  soaring  aloft  and  through 
golden  streets  on  a  grey  donkey.     If  the  golden 

204 


The  Heart  of  Nature  205 

streets  are  anything  like  as  beautiful  as  the 
country  lanes  through  which  we  are  driving  we 
shall  be  happy.  I  wish  you  could  see  them  —  the 
lanes,  I  mean.  They  are  a  bower  of  fairy  delight. 
Wild  roses,  honeysuckle,  and  meadow-sweet 
seem  to  vie  with  each  other  in  rilling  the  warm 
air  with  perfume.  Larks  —  I  never  knew  before 
that  the  world  held  so  many  —  sing  to  us  from 
heaven,  the  sweetest  feathered  choristers.  Last 
night  a  nightingale  sang  to  us  in  the  light  of  a  full 
moon.  It  was  the  first  Pippa  had  heard.  There 
was  something  almost  terrifying  in  her  rapture. 
She  feels  almost  too  keenly.  She  is,  however, 
absolutely  in  her  element,  and  if  I  had  ever  felt 
any  real  doubt  about  her  being  the  child  of 
Kostolitz  I  should  only  have  needed  to  see  her 
out  here  to  convince  me.  At  times  she  finds  the 
most  adorable  bits  of  language  in  which  to 
express  her  emotions.  But  then  it  is  always 
some  little  thing  like  the  colour  of  a  flower-chalice 
or  the  glint  of  the  kingfisher's  blue.  We  saw  one 
the  other  day.  It  skimmed  up  a  bit  of  transparent 
water  and  perched  on  a  piece  of  stick  in  mid- 
stream. Pippa  and  I  watched  it,  holding  our 
breath.  All  at  once  something  —  I  don't  know 
what  —  startled  it.  There  was  a  streak  of  iri- 
descent colour  and  it  had  gone.  But  it  left  us 
both  with  the  joyous  feeling  of  discovery.  The 
bird  is  too  rare  and  too  beautiful  to  leave  one 
entirely     unmoved.     Pippa     could    talk    of     that 


2o6  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

incident.  It  is  the  bigger  aspects  of  Nature  that 
hold  her  dumb.  We  came  to  a  wood  one  evening 
—  pines,  straight  and  solemn  as  the  aisles  of  a 
cathedral,  the  setting  sun  slanting  down  the 
long  spaces.  Pippa's  face  was  a  marvel.  She 
just  put  her  hand  up  to  her  throat  and  held  it 
there  as  if  it  ached  with  the  beauty  of  the  thing, 
and  then  she  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  It  was 
holy  ground,  though  there  had  been  no  priestly 
ceremonial  to  proclaim  it  so.  Only  the  wind  was 
there  to  whisper  a  benediction,  and  the  trees 
themselves  were  like  priests  scattering  the  incense 
of  their  fragrant  breath.  The  very  memory  of  it 
brings  thoughts  of  poetry  to  my  mind.  But  again 
to  Pippa.  She's  yours,  and  I  want  you  to  know 
her  as  I'm  seeing  her  now,  for  it's  the  essence  of 
her  —  the  spirit  of  Kostolitz  I'm  seeing.  A  long 
line  of  cawing  rooks,  whether  at  sunset  or  against 
the  blue  sky,  affects  her  strangely.  It  seems  to 
make  her  unutterably  sad.  Temporarily  only, 
I  am  glad  to  say,  for  she  is  the  gayest  of  children, 
and  delights  in  the  smallest  of  pleasures  —  namely, 
a  pennyworth  of  bull's-eyes  and  sticks  of  pink- 
and-white  striped  stuff  which  we  buy  from 
extremely  minute  shops,  whose  windows  are 
crammed  below  with  apples  —  foreign,  of  course  — 
and  nuts.  Above  the  apples  and  nuts  are  rows 
of  glass  bottles  full  of  pear-drops,  lemon-drops, 
peppermints,  and  barley-sugar,  also  sugar  candy 
the  real  article,  rough  and  scrunchly  on  a  string. 


The  Heart  of  Nature  207 

And  somewhere  in  the  window,  very  incon- 
spicuous, is  a  slit  through  which  one  can  drop 
letters  —  the  sweetstuff  shop  is  always  the  post 
office.  But  sweets  evidently  take  decided  pre- 
cedence over  such  minor  considerations  as  letters 
and  postage  stamps.  There  is  always  a  garden 
leading  up  to  the  shop,  and  it  is  always  crammed 
with  flowers,  the  stiff  old-fashioned  kind  —  sweet- 
williams,  stocks,  marigolds,  mignonette,  asters, 
and  such-like.  There  are  bushes,  too,  of  lavender, 
and  lad's-love.  I  painted  one  of  them,  but  some- 
how did  not  hit  it  off.  I've  made  another  sketch, 
though,  of  a  pond,  a  willow,  meadow-sweet,  and 
blue  hills,  which  pleases  me  quite  a  lot.  In  fact, 
I  was  so  absorbed  in  it  that  I  lost  Pippa.  You 
needn't  be  anxious,  because  she  is  found  again, 
and  with  her  something  you  wanted,  namely, 
the  first  candidate  for  your  School  of  a  Wonderful 
Chance.  I  had  just  finished  my  sketch,  and 
having  come  back  to  the  practicalities  of  life 
realized  that  Pippa  had  been  absent  for  two  hours. 
When  lo!  and  behold  she  appeared,  and  with  her  a 
loose-limbed  fellow  of  about  twenty.  When  he 
fills  out  he  will  rival  Dan  in  size  —  but  that  is 
beside  the  mark. 

"  '  Barnabas,'  she  cried  —  ceremony  and  with 
it  the  Monsieur  has  lapsed  into  disuse  in  the  open 
air  — *  do  look  at  ze  lovely  little  figure  'e  'as  made. 
Ts  name  is  Andrew  McAndrew.'  And  she  rolled 
her  r's  with  gusto.     Well,  it  is  pleasant  to  think 


208  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

that  Pippa  should  be  the  one  to  find  your  first 
candidate,  and  it  is  curious  to  think  it  is  one  who, 
if  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  will  one  day  be  a  great 
sculptor.  The  little  figure  of  a  young  girl,  made 
from  the  clay  of  the  river,  was  to  my  mind  simply 
a  marvel.  I  learnt  his  story.  I'll  not  give  it  in 
the  broad  Scotch  in  which  he  told  it,  for  it  would 
take  you  your  whole  time  to  make  it  out.  He 
lived  in  London  —  Bayswater  way  —  with  a 
widowed  mother,  whom  he  supports  by  typing 
in  a  stuffy  little  office  which  he  loathes,  though 
he  has  not  been  without  hope  that  '  Aiblins  the 
gud  Lorrd  would  find  a  way  out  for  him  one  o' 
these  days.'  Whenever  he  has  any  spare  time 
he  models  in  clay,  which  mercifully  is  an  in- 
expensive material.  He  has  at  the  moment  a 
week's  holiday,  during  which  he  is  tramping  the 
country,  sleeping  under  a  hedge  or  at  the  foot  of 
a  hayrick,  eating  bread  and  cheese  like  any  tramp, 
and  enjoying  himself  finely  —  as  we  are.  Pippa, 
it  appears,  watched  him  at  work,  herself  hidden, 
like  the  fairy  she  is,  in  a  mass  of  meadow-sweet. 
Suddenly  she  appeared  from  among  it,  and  they 
entered  into  a  conversation  which  must  have  been 
curious,  conducted  in  a  broad  Scotch  on  his  side, 
and  in  broken  English  on  hers  —  though  her 
English  is  progressing  rapidly.  Anyhow,  she 
made  him  understand  she  was  out  with  a  party 
of  artists.     He  was  all  agog  to  meet  us,  and  she 


The  Heart  of  Nature  209 

brought  him  along.  He  will  join  us  for  the  next 
three  days,  instead  of  making  his  way  again  in 
the  direction  of  London  as  he  had  intended,  and 
we've  arranged  between  us  to  send  him  back  by 
train.  As  soon  as  I'm  at  my  studio  again  he  will 
look  me  up,  and  I'll  bring  him  along  to  see  you. 
I've  given  him  no  inkling  of  the  Wonderful 
Chance  before  him.  That  is  for  you  to  do.  But 
he's  one  of  the  right  ones  for  it  and  no  mistake. 
You  won't  mind  if  we  keep  on  the  tour  till  the 
end  of  June,  will  you?  Cupid  is  sitting  gaily  in 
the  donkey-cart  alongside  Pippa,  and  though 
Aurora  and  Alan  don't  quite  realize  his  presence 
yet,  they  soon  will  discover  him,  and  will  no 
doubt  bring  him  back  as  a  permanent  guest  to 
London.  That,  of  course,  was  my  main  idea 
when  I  proposed  the  tour.  High  Art,  thank 
goodness,  is  getting  wan  and  pale.  She  had 
almost  her  death-blow  the  other  day  when  Aurora 
made  a  daisy-chain  with  which  she  adorned 
Alan,  and  he  fell  into  a  pond  dabbling  after 
tadpoles  for  Pippa.  We  fished  him  out  and 
wrapped  him  in  a  rug,  while  we  spread  his 
clothes  in  a  buttercup  field  to  dry.  The  warmth 
of  their  gold  was  enough  to  dry  them,  let  alone 
the  sun.  I  heard  Cupid  chuckling,  the  rogue! 
We  miss  you  a  lot,  and  the  best  thing  we 
have  to  look  forward  to  on  our  return  is  your 
welcome  .  .  ." 


210  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Miss  Mason  put  down  the  letter  with  a  little 
sigh  of  happiness.  Her  heart  felt  nearly  as  warm 
and  sunny  as  the  buttercup  field. 

Then  she  set  out  to  meet  Bridget  at  Storey's 
in  Kensington  High  Street. 

Exactly  three  weeks  after  Miss  Mason's  pere- 
grination to  Chiswick  she  put  a  request  to  Jas- 
per. 

"  I  want,"  she  said,  in  as  careless  a  voice  as  she 
could  assume,  "  to  call  on  a  friend  of  mine  this 
afternoon,  and  I  want  you  to  come  with  me." 

Jasper  looked  dismayed.  "  I  should  be 
delighted,"  he  said  mendaciously,  "  only  calling 
isn't  a  bit  in  my  line." 

"  It's  quite  near  at  hand,"  said  Miss  Mason ; 
"  only  at  a  flat  in  Beaufort  Street,  and  I  particu- 
larly want  you  to  meet  my  friend." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Jasper,  suppressing  a  sigh. 

"We'll  start,"  said  Miss  Mason,  "at  half-past 
three." 

At  the  hour  appointed  Jasper  appeared. 

"  You  had  better  call  a  taxi,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
She  felt  it  impossible  to  walk.  She  would  have 
run  all  the  way,  a  proceeding  which  would  have 
undoubtedly  have  astonished  Jasper. 

As  the  taxi  drew  up  at  the  door  of  a  block  of 
flats  in  Beaufort  Street,  a  woman  looked  for  a 
moment  from  a  window.  As  she  saw  the  two 
figures  get  out  she  drew  back  into  the  room.     Her 


The  Heart  of  Xature  211 

heart  was  beating  so  loudly  she  could  almost  hear  it. 

Miss  Mason  rang  the  bell  of  the  flat. 

"  Your  mistress  at  home?  "  she  said  to  the  dapper 
little  maid  who  opened  the  door. 

"Yes  'm.     What  name  'm?" 

"  Miss  Mason  and  Mr.  Merton,"  said  Miss 
Mason  firmly. 

They  went  into  the  bright  little  passage,  and 
the  maid  threw  open  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Miss  Mason  and  Mr.  Merton,"  she  announced. 

A  woman  in  a  pale  green  dress  came  forward  to 
meet  them. 

Jasper  stared. 

"  Jasper,"  she  said,  with  a  little  shaky  laugh,  and 
she  held  out  both  her  hands. 

"  Bride ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  it  was  nearly  seven 
years  since  she  had  heard  that  name. 

Miss  Mason  went  quickly  from  the  room,  and 
closed  the  door  softly  behind  her. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  they  realized  her 
absence.     Then  Bridget  started  up  from  the  sofa. 

"  Aunt  Olive !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  Jasper, 
isn't  she  a  dear!     I  must  go  round  and  find  her." 

"  She'll  be  back  at  her  studio  by  now,"  said 
Jasper  calmly. 

"  I'd  quite  forgotten  her,"  said  Bridget  con- 
tritely.    "  Oughtn't  we  to  go " 

"  Presently,"  said  Jasper.  "  Come  back  to  me 
now.     I  want  you.     Aunt  Olive  will  understand." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  RING  OF  EROS 

FAR  away  from  London  Pippa  was  swinging  on 
a  gate.  Her  dress  had  become  rather  faded 
from  much  sunshine,  and  her  straw  hat  had  been 
baked  quite  brown.  She  had  it  well  pulled  down 
to  shade  her  eyes,  so  that  it  hid  the  upper  part 
of  her  face. 

An  hour  ago  Pippa  had  been  crying,  and  for 
the  reason  that  the  purple-shadowed  landscape 
had  refused  to  be  interpreted  on  canvas  through 
the  medium  of  paints  and  brushes  and  her  own 
little  brown  right  hand.  Barnabas  at  her  earnest 
request  had  lent  her  the  materials.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  she  had  tried  with  them.  He  had 
watched  her  in  silence  as  she  messed  away  with 
the  paints.  Suddenly  she  flung  the  canvas  face 
downwards  on  the  grass  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  is  it,  Kiddy  ?  "  asked  Barnabas,  putting 
his  arm  round  her. 

"  It's  all  out  vere,"  she  said,  nodding  towards 
the  sunny  landscape,  "  and  I  can  see  it,  and  I 
want  to  tell  it  to  myself  and  ozzer  peoples,  like 
you  tell  your  pictures,  and  I  can't  —  oh,  I  can't." 

212 


The  Ring  of  Eros  213 

She  rubbed  her  tear-stained  face  up  and  down  on 
Barnabas'  coat  sleeve  in  an  access  of  despair. 

"  But,  childie,"  expostulated  Barnabas,  "  one 
can't  '  tell  pictures,'  as  you  say,  all  in  a  moment. 
One  has  to  learn." 

Pippa  shook  her  head.  "  Not  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  shall  never  learn.  I  can't  ever  tell  pictures. 
And  it's  all  here,"  she  put  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
"  and  I  want  to  say  it  so  badly." 

For  a  minute  Barnabas  was  silent.  Then  he 
spoke. 

"  Once,"  he  said,  "  there  was  a  boy  who  saw 
that  the  world  was  very  beautiful  and  he  wanted 
to  tell  his  own  beautiful  thoughts  about  it  to 
himself  and  to  other  people.  One  day  he  heard 
a  man  playing  the  violin.  And  the  man  made 
the  violin  speak  so  that  in  its  music  it  said  the 
most  wonderful  things.  It  told  about  the  moon 
shining  on  a  sleeping  sea,  and  the  secrets  the 
little  waves  whispered  to  the  shore.  It  told  of 
silver  streams  whose  banks  were  starred  with 
primroses,  and  it  told  of  great  forests  where  the 
trees  were  standing  dark  and  still  in  the  purple 
night  waiting  for  the  first  rosy  flush  of  dawn.  It 
told  of  the  laughter  of  little  children,  and  the 
songs  young  mothers  sing  to  their  babies.  All 
these  things  the  music  of  the  violin  told,  and  the 
boy  listened,  and  said  to  himself,  '  I  will  play  the 
violin,  for  I  know  now  the  way  I  can  tell  my 
thoughts  to  the  world.'  " 


214  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Pippa  was  listening  entranced.  "  Had  he  got  a 
violin?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Barnabas,  "  but  someone  gave 
him  a  violin,  and  he  had  lessons,  and  he  practised 
for  many  hours,  but  the  violin  would  not  speak 
his  thoughts  in  the  way  he  wished  it  to.  And  one 
day  the  great  violinist  he  had  first  heard  play 
came  to  the  house.  He  listened  to  the  boy  playing 
but  he  didn't  say  very  much.  You  see,  he  was  a 
big  man,  and  the  big  men  never  discourage  the 
little  men.  Remember  that,  Pippa,  my  child. 
Well,  when  the  boy  had  finished  playing,  the 
Master  just  wagged  his  shaggy  great  head  to  and 
fro  and  said,  '  Um,  um,  um.  The  lad's  got  some- 
thing to  say,  but '  and  then  he   went  away. 

But  he  came  again  to  see  the  boy.  And  that  time 
he  didn't  ask  him  to  play,  but  he  just  sat  talking 
to  him.  And  while  he  talked  the  boy  was  playing 
with  a  piece  of  clay,  for  he  was  very  fond  of 
making  figures  out  of  it." 

"  Like  Andrew,"  said  Pippa. 

"  Yes,  like  Andrew.  Well,  while  the  Master 
talked  the  boy  went  on  doing  something  with 
the  clay,  and  suddenly  the  Master  saw  that  it 
was  a  likeness  of  himself  the  boy  had  made. 
'  Let's  have  a  look  at  that,  boy,'  he  said.  The 
boy,  feeling  very  shy  and  crimson,  pushed  it  over 
to  him.  The  Master  stared  at  it  for  a  minute,  then 
he  thumped  his  hand  down  on  the  table.  '  Du 
lieber   Gott ! '   he  exclaimed   in  a  huge  big  voice 


The  Ring  of  Eros  215 

that  made  the  boy  tremble,  '  I  knew  the  boy  had 
something  to  say,  and  behold,'  he  pointed  at  the 
clay,  '  here  is  the  language  in  which  he  shall  say 
it.  My  son,'  he  went  on,  '  you  have  the  ear  to 
hear  the  language  of  music,  and  you  have  the 
heart  to  understand  it,  but  you  have  not  the 
hand  to  make  it  speak  yourself.  In  it  you  under- 
stand the  thoughts  of  others,  but  in  this  earth 
you  shall  tell  your  own.  If  you  live  you  will  be 
a  great  man.'  And  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
boy,  who  took  it  and  kissed  it,  because  he  was 
so  very  happy.  It's  a  true  story,"  ended  Barna- 
bas, "  because  the  boy  himself  told  me,  only  he 
was  a  man  when  he  told  the  story." 

Pippa  nodded  her  head  up  and  down.  "  I  like 
dat,"  she  said.  "  One  day  p'raps  I  find  a  language. 
What  was  ze  boy's  name  ?  " 

"  The  boy's  name,"  said  Barnabas,  "  was 
Philippe  Kostolitz,  and  he  made  the  little  faun 
which  you  love,  and  which  is  in  my  garden." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Pippa,  with  a  delighted  sigh.  Her 
tears  were  completely  forgotten.  Twenty  minutes 
later  she  was  swinging  on  the  gate. 

Barnabas  was  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  a  hedge 
near  her,  painting  a  buttercup  field  and  a  copse 
of  birches  beyond.  Dan  was  lying  flat  on  his  back 
smoking.  Andrew  had  gone  back  to  London. 
And  Aurora  and  Alan  were  off  on  some  business 
of  their  own.  Pegasus,  tethered  to  a  long  rope, 
was  contentedly  eating  thistles. 


216  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Pippa  watched  the  birds  and  butterflies,  which 
were  many,  and  the  by-passers,  which  were  few, 
as  she  swung.  An  old  man  passed  and  called 
good  afternoon  in  a  cheery  voice.  A  trap  with  a 
hard-worked  young  doctor  in  it  drove  by,  and 
he  smiled  as  he  saw  Pippa.  Then  there  came  a 
cart  driven  by  a  man,  and  with  a  boy  of  about 
fifteen  sitting  on  the  tail-board,  his  legs  swinging. 
He  made  a  grimace  at  Pippa  as  he  passed,  and 
Pippa  —  be  it  told  with  sorrow  —  put  out  her 
tongue  at  him.  There  was  something  of  the 
gamin  about  Pippa  which  was  never  wholly 
eradicated.  And  after  the  boy  there  passed  a 
young  gipsy  woman  carrying  a  baby.  Pippa  gave 
her  a  three-penny  bit.  The  woman  looked  hard  at 
her. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  there's  some  of  our  blood  in 
your  veins,  and  you  have  the  sad  eyes  and  the 
lucky  smile  of  those  who  are  born  to  many 
happenings.  The  Lord  keep  you,  little  lady." 
And  she  passed  on  her  way.  And  after  she  had 
gone  there  were  only  the  birds  and  butterflies  for 
quite  a  long  time. 

Suddenly  Pippa  heard  the  distant  hoot  of  a 
motor-car.  Barnabas,  who  had  finished  his 
painting,  came  to  the  gate  and  leant  over  it  with 
her.  The  motor  hove  in  sight,  a  great  crimson 
Mercedes,  travelling  fast. 

Pippa  waved  her  hand  as  it  passed.  The 
occupants  of  the  car,  a  man  and  a  woman,  saw 


The  Ring  of  Eros  217 

the  child,  and  the  gaiety  of  the  sunshine  being  in 
their  hearts  they  waved  in  response.  The  woman, 
who  was  swathed  in  a  purple  motor  veil,  waved 
an  ungloved  hand.  Pippa  saw  the  flash  of 
diamonds  on  it.  Also  as  she  waved  something  fell, 
but  the  car  rounded  a  bend  in  the  lane  and  was  out 
of  sight  almost  before  Pippa  and  Barnabas  realized 
it. 

Pippa  scrambled  over  the  gate.  There  was 
something  lying  in  the  dust,  which  she  picked  up. 
She  came  back  slowly  to  Barnabas. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  "  what  a  queer,  pretty  ring." 

A  ruby  was  set  in  it,  on  which  was  engraved  a 
little  figure  of  Eros  holding  a  circle  and  trident. 
The  stone  and  its  setting  was  undoubtedly  very 
ancient.     The  ring  itself  probably  Georgian. 

She  held  it  out  to  Barnabas.  He  took  it  from 
her. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  slowly,  and  he  looked  from  it  in 
the  direction  the  car  had  vanished. 

He  had  seen  the  ring  before  on  the  hand  of 
Philippe  Kostolitz. 

"May  I  keep  it?"  asked  Pippa. 

"  No,  little  thief,"  said  Barnabas.  "  The  owner 
will  miss  it  and  perhaps  come  back  for  it.  In  any 
case  we  shall  have  to  try  and  find  out  who  she  is, 
and  return  it." 

And  he  slipped  the  ring  into  his  coat-pocket. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AN  OLD  MAN  IN  A  GARDEN 

IT  is  strange  how  a  name  long  unspoken  and 
unheard,  once  coming  again  within  one's  ken, 
comes  again  and  again  before  one,  and  in  the  most 
unlikely  and  unexpected  ways. 

For  over  nine  years  Barnabas  had  not  chanced 
to  hear  his  friend's  name  mentioned,  and  now 
there  was  first  Pippa  and  her  wonderful  likeness 
to  him,  and  then  the  incident  of  the  ring,  both 
of  which  had  served  to  remind  him  vividly  and 
bring  the  name  before  him.  But  the  third  inci- 
dent was  to  be  a  good  deal  stranger,  in  fact  it 
was  to  savour  somewhat  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments." 

They  stopped  for  their  noon  halt  one  day  in 
the  shade  of  a  small  coppice.  A  little  beyond  it 
they  could  see  the  roof  and  chimneys  of  a  house 
surrounded  by  a  high  wall.  Before  settling  down 
to  lunch  Barnabas  strolled  towards  it  and  walked 
round  the  wall.  There  was  no  means  of  seeing 
over,  and  the  only  entrance  was  through  a  small 
green  wooden  door,  which  was  shut.  Ivy  grew 
up  the  wall  outside,  and  had  Barnabas  felt 
disposed   he   might   have    climbed    up   by   it   and 

218 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  219 

peered  over.  It  was,  however,  too  hot  for  such 
exertion.  Also  if  there  were  anyone  in  the  garden 
and  he  were  seen,  his  position  would  have  been, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  undignified.  He  strolled 
back  to  the  copse  and  to  the  lunch  which  the  others 
had  unpacked. 

"  Where  'ave  you  been?  "  asked  Pippa. 

Barnabas  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  house. 
"  Down  there,"  he  said. 

"  What's  inside  ?  "  demanded  Pippa. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Barnabas,  attacking  the  leg 
of  a  chicken ;  "  couldn't  see  over." 

Pippa's  eyes  became  far  off  and  dreamy. 
"  Quel  domage!  You  couldn't  climb,  ze  wall  ver' 
much  to  'igh  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  the  question  of  the  height  of  the 
wall,  but  my  dignity,"  returned  Barnabas. 
"  What  would  I  have  looked  like  if  I'd  been 
caught?" 

"  Funny,"  smiled  Pippa,  her  eyes  dancing  with 
amusement. 

"  I've  no  desire  to  look  funny,"  said  Barnabas. 
"  Toss  me  over  that  bottle  of  cider,  like  a  good 
child,  and  look  out  for  flying  corks.  I  do  my  best, 
but  this  weather  makes  the  stuff  too  fizzy  for 
anything." 

Pippa  tossed  the  bottle  and  retired  gravely  behind 
Barnabas  while  he  manipulated  the  cork.  Then 
she  returned  to  her  seat  near  him. 

"  I  do  wonder  what's  inside,"  she  said. 


220  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Cider,"  said  Barnabas,  pouring  it  into  a 
glass. 

"  Not  the  bottle,  mechant,  the  wall,"  announced 
Pippa. 

"  Oh,  the  wall !  I  don't  know ;  nothing,  I 
daresay." 

"  An  Ogre,"  said  Aurora.  She  and  Alan  and 
Dan  had  been  too  busy  feeding  to  enter  into  the 
conversation  before. 

Pippa  elevated  her  chin.  "  Je  ne  suis  pas  une 
bebee,  mot.  I  know,  but  quite  well,  vere  are  no 
Ogres." 

"Lions,  then,  Miss  Curiosity,"  suggested  Alan. 

Pippa  turned  her  shoulder  towards  him. 
"  Imbecile,  it  is  not  a  menagerie,  but  I  have  no 
interest  in  it,  mot.  If  you  wish  to  discover  you 
can  go  and  look  for  yourself."  And  she  proceeded 
to  eat  chicken  delicately  and  haughtily  with  her 
fingers,  disdaining  further  mention  of  the  house 
within  the  wall. 

After  lunch  they  all  lay  down  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees  and  went  to  sleep,  lulled  by  the  sleepy, 
liquid  note  of  the  wood-pigeons,  and  the  humming 
of  bees. 

Barnabas  was  the  first  to  awaken.  When  he 
did  he  discovered  that  Pippa  was  absent.  He 
came  out  of  the  copse  and  looked  down  the  little 
lane  that  ran  between  the  trees  on  one  side  and 
a  stretch  of  moorland  on  the  other.     To  the  left 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  221 

it  would  come  out  on  the  main  road,  to  the  right 
it  led  to  the  wall-enclosed  house. 

Seeing  no  sign  of  the  child,  and  not  caring  to 
coo-ee  to  her  on  account  of  disturbing  the 
sleepers,  he  went  down  towards  the  house, 
thinking  it  more  than  likely,  from  her  remarks 
at  lunch,  that  she  had  gone  to  investigate  the  place 
herself. 

"  Daughter  of  Eve,"  said  Barnabas  to  himself, 
as  he  strolled  down  the  sunny  lane,  watching  the 
butterflies  flitting  over  the  moorland. 

He  reached  the  garden  wall  and  had  strolled 
round  two  sides  of  it  when  he  suddenly  came  to  a 
standstill,  arrested  by  the  sound  of  Pippa's  voice 
from  inside  the  garden. 

He  paused  to  listen.  He  could  hear  her  words 
distinctly.  She  was  narrating  to  some  one  the 
story  of  Philippe  Kostolitz  which  he  had  told  her 
only  a  couple  of  days  previously. 

"  And  so,"  Pippa  ended,  in  her  clear  voice,  "  I 
am  looking  for  my  language.  What  is  yours  ? " 
There  was  a  note  of  shameless  coaxing  in  the 
words. 

"  That,"  returned  a  deep  voice. 

"  What,  ze  garden  ?  "  came  Pippa's  reply. 

Barnabas  put  one  foot  on  a  stout  branch  of 
ivy,  and  clinging  to  another  branch  above  him, 
heaved  himself  noiselessly  to  the  top  of  the 
wall. 


222  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Then  he  saw  Pippa.  She  was  seated  on  a 
garden  bench,  her  hat  in  her  hands,  and  on  the 
bench  beside  her  was  an  old  man.  His  beard, 
long  and  snow-white,  reached  almost  to  his  waist. 
His  hair,  also  snow-white  and  very  thick,  glistened 
in  the  sunlight,  for  his  head  was  uncovered. 
His  clothes,  Barnabas,  saw  were  dark  and  well-cut, 
and  his  voice  was  peculiarly  melodious  and  refined. 

"Well,  upon  my  word!"  ejaculated  Barnabas, 
quite  forgetting  that  he  was  speaking  aloud. 

The  old  man  looked  up.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  with 
a  quaint  smile,  "  so  you,  too,  have  found  the  ivy 
route." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  Pippa  climbed  up 
here?"  exclaimed  Barnabas,  absolutely  forgetful 
of  his  own  rather  curious  position. 

"  But  I  did,"  cried  Pippa  joyfully,  "  and  he  saw 
me,  and  asked  me  to  come  in  and  see  ze  garden. 
But  did  you  ever  see  such  a  garden  ?  " 

"  Never ! "  said  Barnabas  enthusiastically, 
surveying  it  from  his  post  of  vantage. 

Smooth  lawns  with  close-clipped  edges,  and 
flower-beds  a  mass  of  colour  met  his  eye.  There 
were  larkspurs  tall  and  slender,  from  sapphire 
blue  to  turquoise.  There  were  great  tree  lupins, 
there  were  roses  of  every  shade  and  shape  im- 
aginable. There  were  crimson  and  blue  salvias, 
scarlet  and  white  phloxes,  borders  of  African 
marigolds  —  a  blaze  of  orange ;  and  there  was  a 
great    bed    of    hollyhocks,    among    whose    silken 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  223 

flowers  butterflies  innumerable  were  hovering. 
In  the  middle  of  the  lawn  was  a  marble  basin 
full  of  crystal  water,  on  whose  edge  white  pigeons 
were  preening  themselves,  and  a  couple  of  gor- 
geous peacocks  spread  tails  of  waking  eyes  to  the 
sun. 

"  Will  you  not,"  said  the  old  man  courteously, 
"  follow  Pippa's  example  and  enter  the  garden  by 
the  door?     You  will  find  it  unfastened." 

Barnabas  slithered  down  off  the  wall  and  came 
round  to  the  green  door.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
suddenly  walking  into  a  fairy-tale  garden  in 
which  nothing  that  might  happen  would  surprise 
him. 

The  old  man  came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said  courteously,  "  that  the  child's 
absence  has  not  caused  you  anxiety.  I  found  a 
pleasure  in  her  conversation,  and  forgot  that  time 
was  passing." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Barnabas  assured  him.  "  I  had 
only  just  missed  her.  I  came  to  look  for  her,  and 
heard  her  voice.  Forgive  my  unceremonious 
appearance." 

The  old  man  smiled.  "  It  was  as  delightful  as 
her  own,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Barnabas  looked 
towards  the  house.  It  was  Elizabethan  in 
structure,  with  walls  stained  to  a  variety  of 
different  colours  by  wind,  sun,  rain,  and  time. 
Roses  wreathed  the  latticed  windows,  and  up  one 


224  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

side  of  the  house  a  great  wistaria  climbed,  covering 
part  of  the  roof  and  losing  itself  among  the 
chimney-stacks. 

"Will  you  come  inside?"  said  the  old  man. 
"  There  is  something  I  would  like  the  child  to 
see." 

Barnabas  assented.  The  three  sleepers  in  the 
coppice  were  forgotten.  The  fascination  of  the 
place  and  the  old  man's  strange  and  courtly 
personality  was  upon  him. 

The  old  man  had  led  the  way  into  the  house. 
They  went  into  a  square  hall,  dark  and  cool. 
The  floor  was  of  inlaid  wood  highly  polished, 
the  walls  oak  and  hung  with  pictures.  They 
passed  through  the  hall,  and  the  old  man  led  the 
way  through  an  arched  doorway  and  down  two 
steps  into  a  room  which  to  the  mind  of  Barnabas 
belonged  most  assuredly  to  the  ancient  stories 
of  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  In  shape  it  was 
circular,  and  hung  with  draperies  of  a  curious 
deep  blue,  like  the  colour  of  the  sky  at  night. 
The  floor  was  also  polished  and  covered  with  a 
few  old  Persian  rugs.  There  was  an  oak  table  at 
the  far  side  of  the  room,  three  large  oak  chairs, 
and  a  kind  of  divan  covered  in  sapphire-blue 
silk  and  worked  with  tiny  crescent  moons  and 
stars. 

But  the  arresting  note  of  the  room  lay  in  a 
marble  statue  on  a  pedestal.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  wherein  exactly  the  extraordinary  fascina- 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  225 

tion  of  it  lay.  But  Barnabas  looked  at  it  almost 
spellbound.  The  old  man  motioned  to  them  to  sit 
down,  and  seated  himself. 

"  That  statue,"  he  said,  "  was  given  me  by  a 
friend  of  mine.  He  used  to  pass  many  months 
with  me  at  a  time.  He  loved  the  quietude  of 
these  surroundings  as  I  love  them.  At  the  back 
of  the  house  I  had  a  studio  built  for  him  where  he 
worked.  When  he  was  not  working  he  sat  in  the 
garden.  He  loved  it.  He  used  to  say  he  loved 
the  flowers  both  in  sunlight  and  in  moonlight,  or 
drenched  in  tears  of  rain.  He  said  the  Spirit  of 
the  Garden  moved  among  them.  That  was  the 
Figure  he  made  of  Her.  Look  at  it  well,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  grave  earnestness.  "  Is  it  not 
wonderful  ?  " 

"  Wonderful !  "  echoed  Barnabas  from  his  heart. 

"  It  is  to  me,"  said  the  old  man  quietly,  "  a 
perfect  embodiment  of  an  inspiration.  So  much 
is  often  lost.  First  the  inspiration-flash  has  to 
become  articulate  —  to  be  shaped  in  the  brain  — 
before  the  hand  even  starts  to  fashion  it.  It 
loses  enormously  in  the  process.  To  me  that  is 
one  of  the  few  things  that  has  not  lost.  It  is  the 
first  inspiration-flash  embodied  in  marble.  It 
has  never  been  exhibited.  My  friend  had  a  curious 
dislike  to  exhibiting  his  work.  He  was  a  strange 
man." 

He  lapsed  into  a  thoughtful  silence.  Pippa 
was   lying  back   in  her  chair,   her  hands   tucked 


226  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

under  her  chin  —  a  usual  attitude  of  hers.  She 
was  gazing  at  the  statue  with  wide  grey  eyes. 
Barnabas  had  a  certain  presentiment  of  a  name 
that  would  shortly  be  mentioned. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  place  where  he 
worked  ?  "  asked  the  old  man  suddenly. 

Barnabas  got  up  from  his  chair.  Pippa  came 
across  to  him  and  slid  her  hand  into  his.  Her 
imagination  was  vividly  at  work. 

They  left  the  circular  room  and  went  down  a 
passage.  The  old  man  took  a  key  from  his  pocket 
and  unlocked  a  door. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  large  room,  well  lighted.  There  were 
plaster  casts  of  heads  on  various  shelves,  and 
several  plaster  plaques  hanging  on  the  walls.  At 
one  side  of  the  studio  Barnabas  saw  the  plaster 
figure  of  a  little  faun.  It  was  the  same  as  the 
marble  faun  in  his  garden.  Pippa  did  not  notice 
it.  She  was  gazing  at  a  figure,  enveloped  in  an 
old  sheet,  which  was  on  a  stand  in  the  middle  of 
the  room. 

"  It  was  the  last  piece  of  work  he  started 
here,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  to  it.  "  It  has 
remained  just  as  he  left  it.  Nothing  has  been 
moved.  I  dust  the  place  myself.  No  one  ever 
entered  it  but  my  friend  and  I  and  the  workmen 
he  employed.  They  were  always  foreigners,  and 
came  from  a  distance.  But  now  no  one  enters 
but  I.     You  are  the  first  to  come  into  the  place." 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  227 

"  And,"  said  Barnabas,  speaking  in  a  low  voice, 
"you  brought  us  in  here  because  of  Pippa?  " 

Pippa  had  wandered  to  the  far  side  of  the  room. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Because  Philippe  Kostolitz  was  also  my 
friend." 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  man  softly.  "And 
where,"  he  asked,  "  did  you  find  the  child  ?  " 

"  She  came  to  us,"  said  Barnabas,  "  out  of  the 
Nowhere." 

The  old  man  smiled.  "  Planted  there  I  fancy 
by  Philippe."  Then  their  eyes  met.  "  So  you  saw 
the  likeness  too?  " 

"  I  did,"  said  Barnabas. 

"  That  was  the  reason,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that 
I  liked  to  talk  to  her.  She  reminded  me  of  him. 
He  came  and  went  from  here  as  he  chose.  It 
was  on  one  of  his  tramps  that  he  wandered  in. 
The  door  in  the  wall  is  never  locked.  I  found 
him  looking  at  the  butterflies  among  my  holly- 
hocks. He  was  a  lad  of  twenty  at  that  time.  It 
is  twenty-five  years  ago." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Barnabas. 

"  Pippa's  voice,"  went  on  the  old  man,  "  is 
charming.  I  liked  to  hear  it.  She  has  a  way  of 
looking  up  at  one  when  she  talks  that  reminds  me 
of  our  friend.  She  told  me  a  delightful  little  story 
about  a  sculptor." 

"  The  story,"  said  Barnabas,  "  was  true.  And 
the  sculptor  was  Philippe  Kostolitz." 


228  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  Truly,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  might  have 
guessed  it." 

And  again  he  lapsed  into  silence.  Suddenly  he 
roused  himself. 

"  But  you  will  have  fruit  and  cake  and  some- 
thing to  drink,"  he  said.  "  I  was  forgetting  my 
manners." 

"  We  have  only  just  lunched,"  said  Barnabas. 

"  But  fruit,"  the  old  man  insisted,  "  at  least 
fruit.  I  hold  the  Eastern  ideas  of  hospitality. 
Those  to  whom  I  feel  friendly  must  eat  in  my 
house." 

He  led  the  way  back  into  the  hall  and  signed 
to  them  to  sit  down.  Then  he  clapped  his  hands 
three  times.  An  Indian,  brown  as  mahogany,  in 
loose  trousers,  white  shirt,  and  turban,  answered 
the  summons.  He  salaamed,  his  face  as  impassive 
as  a  mask. 

The  old  man  said  something  to  him  in  a  language 
neither  Barnabas  nor  Pippa  understood,  though 
Barnabas  guessed  it  to  be  Hindustanee. 

"  He  has  served  me,"  said  the  old  man,  "  for 
fifteen  years.     He  is  faithful  as  a  dog." 

"  Do  you  live  here  always  ?  "  asked  Barnabas. 

"  I  have  lived  here,"  said  the  old  man,  "  for 
thirty  years.  Up  till  the  age  of  forty  I  travelled 
far.  Then  I  came  here  to  peace  —  my  thoughts, 
my  flowers,  and  my  books.  I  have  a  few  friends 
who  come  to  see  me,  and  they  are  always 
welcome." 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  229 

He  mentioned  three  or  four  names.  Among 
them  Barnabas  recognized  the  name  of  a  famous 
statesmen  and  a  well-known  singer. 

The  Indian  returned  with  a  tray,  on  which  was 
a  dish  of  strawberries,  some  wafer  biscuits,  a  glass 
of  milk,  and  two  empty  tumblers,  and  three  small 
decanters,  which  he  placed  on  a  table. 

The  old  man  helped  Pippa  to  strawberries  and 
gave  her  the  glass  of  milk.  Then  from  the  three 
decanters  he  mixed  a  drink  for  Barnabas  and 
himself. 

"  Excellent ! "  said  Barnabas  as  he  tasted  it. 

"  My  own  brewing,"  said  the  old  man. 

While  they  ate  the  fruit  he  talked  to  them  of 
his  travels.  Each  little  narrative  he  told  was  well- 
turned  and  concise,  the  language  he  chose  was 
poetical. 

All  at  once  he  got  up  and  went  into  an  inner 
room.  He  came  back  with  the  most  exquisite 
little  Russian  icon.     He  gave  it  to  Pippa. 

"  Will  you  have  it,"  he  asked,  "  in  memory  of 
your  visit  here  ?  " 

Pippa  was  covered  with  rosy  blushes  of  delight. 

"Mais,  je  vous  remerce  mille  fois,"  she  said. 
"  Barnabas,  isn't  it  beautiful,  but,  oh,  very 
beautiful?" 

"  It's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Barnabas. 
"  You've  given  a  great  deal  of  pleasure."  And 
then  quite  suddenly,  and  for  the  first  time,  he 
remembered  the  three  sleepers  in  the  wood,  who 


230  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

doubtless  had  long  ago  awakened.  He  signed  to 
Pippa,  who  got  up.  The  old  man  took  them  into 
the  garden.  At  the  green  door  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Will  you  come  again  and  see  me  ?  "  he  said. 
"  I  live,  as  you  see,  alone  among  my  flowers.  Ali 
looks  after  my  bodily  needs,  and  I  have  a  man  who 
helps  me  in  my  garden.  I  do  not,  as  a  rule,  see 
people  —  beyond  the  few  friends  I  mentioned  to 
you.  But  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  if  you 
will  come.  My  name  is  Adam  Gray,  and  my 
house  is  called  The  Close." 

And  Barnabas  promised  that  one  day  they  would 
come  again. 

So  they  left  the  enchanted  garden  and  went  up 
the  lane  among  the  butterflies. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  dreaming,"  said  Pippa 
thoughtfully. 

"  Exactly,  my  dear,"  said  Barnabas.  "  It's 
what  we've  both  been  doing  —  dreaming  a  very 
fantastic  Arabian  Night's  dream,  which  nobody 
would  believe  if  we  told  it  to  them." 

And  then  from  afar  an  extremely  wakeful  Dan 
saw  them  and  hailed  them  in  wrathful  accents. 

"  Where  on  earth  have  you  two  been  ? "  he 
cried.  "  We've  been  hunting  for  you  for  the  last 
hour  and  a  half." 

"We've  been  in  a  fairy-tale,"  said  Barnabas, 
as  he  reached  him,  "  where  clocks  and  watches 
are   not    admitted,    and    where    turbaned    Indians 


An  Old  Man  in  a  Garden  231 

bring  red,  white,  and  green  drinks  in  cut-glass 
decanters,  which  when  mixed  together  is  drink  fit 
for  the  gods.  Now  let  me  help  you  to  harness 
•Pegasus.  And  if  you'll  leave  off  staring  I'll  tell 
you  about  it,  only  Pippa  knows  you  won't  believe 
it." 

Miss  Mason,  in  her  studio  in  London,  received 
a  registered  packet  from  Barnabas.  She  opened 
it,  and  found  inside  a  letter  and  a  curious  signet 
ring. 

"  We  are  on  our  way  home,"  wrote  Barnabas. 
"  Cupid  has  triumphed  and  is  holding  the  reins 
of  Pegasus.  Pippa,  Dan,  and  I  are  taking  back 
seats.  Kisses  and  moonlight  —  there's  a  full 
moon  —  predominate,  and  I  saw  Aurora  hugging 
a  rosy-cheeked  baby  in  a  cottage  garden.  High 
Art  gave  one  groan  and  expired.  She  has  never, 
never  moved  again.  The  call  of  wedding  bells  is 
bringing  us  back  to  London.  You  may  expect 
us  on  Friday.  I  am  enclosing  a  ring  which  was 
dropped  from  a  passing  motor-car.  Fortunately 
I  saw  the  number.  It  was  a  London  car.  I  am 
advertising  for  the  owner  of  the  ring  in  various 
London  papers,  and  have  given  your  studio  as 
the  address  to  which  to  apply,  though  I  gave  my 
own  name.  Therefore  I  send  you  the  ring.  You 
will,  of  course,  take  the  name  and  address  of  the 
claimant.  Dan  and  I  will  be  glad  to  be  home 
again.     Though    Nature    in    her    present    sunny 


232  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

mood  is  extraordinarily  entrancing,  there  is  a 
good  deal  to  be  said  in  favour  of  spring  mat- 
tresses .  .  ." 

Miss  Mason  looked  at  the  ring,  turning  it 
curiously  in  her  hand.  Then  she  put  it  away  in  a 
little  carved  box  which  she  locked. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ANDREW    MCANDREW 

CCT    FEEL,"    said    Barnabas,    "that    some    one 

X  ought  to  pat  me  on  the  back.  I  set  out  to 
do  something,  and  I  did  it.  It  is  a  pleasant 
sensation." 

"  Unaccustomed  ? "  asked  Miss  Mason,  with 
mock  sarcasm. 

They  were  both  in  her  studio  the  day  following 
the  return  of  the  donkey-party.  They  were 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  Andrew  McAndrew,  to 
whom  Barnabas  had  written  to  come  to  the  studio 
at  four  o'clock.  Pippa  had  been  taken  by  Jasper 
to  call  upon  his  wife. 

Miss  Mason  had  announced  Bridget's  advent  to 
Beaufort  Street  to  the  assembled  party  the  previous 
evening.  They  had  taken  the  announcement 
without  undue  surprise.  Their  minds  were  too  big 
and  straightforward  to  dream  of  questioning. 
Since  Jasper  had  chosen  to  keep  the  fact  of  his 
marriage  secret  it  was  entirely  his  own  affair. 
They  merely  rejoiced  that  he  was  now,  as  Miss 
Mason  told  them,  unfeignedly  happy. 

"  Aurora,"  continued  Barnabas,  "  has  gone 
down  to  stay  with  her  own  people  for  three  weeks, 

233 


234  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

while  the  banns  are  being  called.  She  left  this 
morning,  and  Alan  is  writing  to  her  at  the  moment. 
Their  pet  names  for  each  other  are  Sweetest  and 
Boysie.  I  suppose  the  pendulum  was  bound  to 
swing  pretty  far  in  the  direction  of  rank  senti- 
mentality.    It'll  steady  again  presently." 

"  You  swung  it,"  said  Miss  Mason  dryly. 

"  And  I'm  proud  of  the  fact,"  said  Barnabas. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"If  that's  Mr.  McAndrew,"  said  Miss  Mason, 
relapsing  into  her  gruffest  manner,  "you'll  have  to 
do  the  talking,  because  I  can't." 

"  Mr.  McAndrew,"  said  Sally,  opening  the  door. 

Andrew  came  in,  a  great  loose-limbed  fellow, 
with  mouse-coloured  hair,  and  oddly  earnest  eyes 
in  a  snub-nosed,  wide-mouthed  face. 

"Awfully  glad  to  see  you,  McAndrew,"  said 
Barnabas  warmly.  "Let  me  introduce  you  to 
Miss  Mason." 

The  two  shook  hands  and  Andrew  sat  down. 
His  glance  wandered  round  the  studio  till  it 
reached  the  "  Winged  Victory."  His  eyes  rested 
on  it  with  pleasure  as  on  some  familiar  friend. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  but  yon's  a  fine  bit  o'  wor-rk." 

"  You're  fond  of  sculpture,"  said  Miss  Mason 
shortly. 

"  'Deed,"  said  Andrew,  "  I  like  it  weel." 

"Do  you  do  anything  yourself  in  that  way?" 
asked  Miss  Mason. 

Andrew  shook  his  head.     "  I'll  no  be  havin'  the 


Andrew  Mc Andrew  235 

time,"  he  said,  "  for  mair  than  juist  dabblin'  wi' 
a  bit  o'  clay." 

M  Would  you  like  to  give  your  time  to  the 
work  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mason. 

"  'Deed  an'  I  wad."  There  was  a  simple 
earnestness  about  the  words  infinitely  more  con- 
vincing than  any  lengthy  assurance  of  the  fact. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Mason  gruffly,  "  let's  have 
some  tea." 

During  the  meal  Barnabas  did  most  of  the 
talking,  Andrew  replying  in  short  sentences.  Miss 
Mason  was  practically  silent.  When  it  was  finished 
Miss  Mason  looked  across  at  Barnabas. 

"  Better  tell  Mr.  McAndrew  our  idea,"  she  said. 

So,  very  straightforwardly,  Barnabas  told  An- 
drew Miss  Mason's  scheme  for  the  Wonderful 
Chance.  When  he  had  ended  Andrew  looked  at 
him  with  an  expression  of  dumb  happiness  in  his 
eyes. 

"You'll    be    meanin' ?"    he     said.     "You 

were  thinkin'  to  offer  the  chance  to  me  ?  " 

"  If  you  care  to  take  it,"  said  Barnabas.  "  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I'm  maist  obleeged,"  said  Andrew,  and  he 
lapsed  into  silence. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Miss  Mason  gruffly, 
"  it's  settled.  Mr.  Kirby  will  make  all  arrange- 
ments with  you."     And  she  too  became  silent. 

It  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  interview  Barnabas 
had  intended.     He  felt  Miss  Mason  to  be  almost 


236  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

tiresomely  gruff,  and  his  protege  almost  ungrateful. 

At  last  Andrew  heaved  himself  out  of  his  chair. 

"  I'll  be  leavin',"  he  said.  He  held  out  his  hand 
to  Miss  Mason.  "  I'm  maist  obleeged,"  he  said 
again. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Miss  Mason  gruffly. 

Barnabas  went  out  into  the  little  garden  with 
Andrew. 

"  Miss  Mason  doesn't  mean  to  be  abrupt,"  he 
said.  "  It's  merely  her  manner.  She  finds  it  diffi- 
cult to  express " 

Andrew  turned  on  him.  "  Man,  d'ye  think  I 
dinna  ken.  D'ye  think  *  I'm  maist  obleeged  '  told 
juist  all  that  was  in  ma  heart.  I  cud  e'en  ha'  knelt 
an'  ha'  kissed  the  hem  o'  her  skir-rt.  An'  gin  I 
had  I'd  ha'  been  sobbin'  like  a  wee  bit  wean."  An- 
drew swallowed  once  or  twice  fiercely. 

Then  he  saw  the  little  faun. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  yon's  bonny.  I  wad  like  fine 
to  make  a  figure  to  stand  in  t'  auld  lady's  garden, 
but  aiblins  she  like  it  a  wee  bit  draipit." 

"  Charity,"  laughed  Barnabas,  "  colossal  and  in 
many  robes." 

"  Huh !  "  said  Andrew  scornfully,  "  it's  ha'  gran' 
figure  o'  Charity  I  was  thinkin'  o',  but  juist  a  wee 
figure  o'  smilin'  Love  wi'  his  hands  held  oot  to 
draw  folk  to  his  hearrt." 

And  a  year  later  such  a  little  figure  did  stand  — 
not  in  the  garden  —  but  in  a  corner  of  Miss 
Mason's  studio. 


Andrew  McAndrew  237 

When  Andrew  had  gone  Barnabas  went  back  into 
the  studio. 

"  We  disappointed  you,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
"  That  boy's  no  more  good  at  expressing  his  feel- 
ings than  I  am." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Barnabas  lightly.  "  He 
managed  though  to  say  a  bit  more  in  the  garden. 
By  the  way,"  he  went  on,  "  no  one  has  called  to 
claim  the  ring  yet,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Mason.  "  It's  a  queer 
ring." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barnabas.  But  for  some  reason  he 
still  did  not  say  where  and  when  he  had  first 
seen  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   CRUELTY   OF   THE   FATES 

THE  Duchessa  di  Corleone  was  on  her  way 
back  from  Italy.  She  had  said  good-bye 
with  a  little  pang  to  the  gallery,  and  to  the  court- 
yard with  its  golden  oranges  and  marble  statues, 
but  once  on  her  way  to  England  the  thought  of 
Paul  completely  obliterated  any  trace  of  sorrow. 
She  was  joyfully  ready  to  give  up  everything  — 
the  Casa  di  Corleone,  her  house  on  the  Embank- 
ment, and  her  thousands  a  year  for  the  man  who 
had  taken  her  heart  into  his  keeping. 

Throughout  the  journey  her  heart  sang  little 
songs  of  happiness,  which  had  as  their  refrain  the 
one  word,  "  Paul."  The  express  train  rushing 
across  the  country  bathed  in  the  July  sun  could 
hardly  carry  her  with  sufficient  swiftness.  When, 
at  last,  Calais  was  reached  and  she  was  on  board 
the  boat  she  felt  happier. 

With  the  cliffs  of  Dover  in  sight  her  heart  was 
singing  a  Te  Deum.  Till  that  moment  she  had 
felt  that  some  accident  might  happen  to  prevent 
her  getting  to  him.  Now,  in  less  than  four  hours 
she  would  be  in  his  studio. 

She  had  written  to  tell  him  not  to  meet  her  at 
238 


The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates  239 

the  station.  She  wanted  their  first  meeting  to  be 
alone,  without  the  eyes  of  curious  porters  upon 
them. 

"Just  you  and  I  together,  my  darling,"  she 
wrote.  "  I  can  see  the  room  in  my  mind,  and  you 
coming  forward  to  meet  me.  There  has  not  been 
a  moment  day  and  night  when  you  have  been  ab- 
sent from  my  thoughts.  Our  love  transfigures 
everything  for  me.  Life  has  become  a  magic  book 
on  every  page  of  which  your  name  is  written.  .  .  ." 

That  letter  had  reached  Paul  in  his  studio  the 
morning  of  the  day  Sara  would  arrive.  And  now, 
an  hour  before  her  arrival,  he  was  sitting  with  it 
crumpled  tightly  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  staring 
blankly  before  him. 

The  Fates  had  struck  suddenly,  dealing  sorrow 
as  they  had  dealt  joy,  silently  and  swiftly.  That 
very  morning  he  had  heard  of  the  complete  failure 
of  the  Mexican  bank  in  which  his  money  was 
invested. 

At  first  the  news  had  stunned  him.  In  the 
afternoon  he  had  gone  down  to  a  friend  in  the 
city  to  make  fuller  enquiries.  He  found  his  worst 
fears  realized.  His  income,  which  altogether  had 
amounted  to  about  fourteen  hundred  a  year,  had 
been  suddenly  reduced  to  less  than  half.  In  fact, 
to  merely  the  six  hundred  or  so  he  earned  by  his 
painting. 

Paul    went   back   to   his    studio    and    sat   down 


240  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

trying  to  realize  what  it  would  mean.  And 
because  he  was  a  man  whose  steady  grey  eyes 
had  always  looked  facts  clearly  in  the  face,  he 
even  took  pencil  and  paper  and  jotted  down  certain 
figures.  But  the  sum  total  always  remained  the 
same  —  his  marriage  with  Sara  had  become 
impossible. 

He  never  for  an  instant  did  her  the  wrong  of 
thinking  that  his  loss  of  income  would  make  any 
difference  to  her  love  for  him.  He  believed  in  her 
love  as  implicitly  as  he  believed  in  his  own. 
That,  however,  did  not  alter  the  one  fact  that 
marriage  was  out  of  the  question.  Even  if  he 
reduced  his  mother's  allowance  by  a  hundred  a 
year  —  which,  however,  he  had  no  intention  of 
doing  —  the  three  hundred  left  him  would  not 
justify  him  taking  any  woman  to  wife,  and 
assuredly  not  a  woman  like  the  Duchessa  di 
Corleone.  He  knew  the  impossibility  of  trans- 
planting a  hot-house  flower  to  the  open  air  of  a 
wintry  garden.  The  thing  could  not  be  done.  No 
amount  of  care  could  save  it ;  it  must  die. 

And  with  the  irony  of  fate,  this  news  had 
reached  him  by  the  very  same  post  as  her  let- 
ter. 

He  took  it  again  from  his  pocket  and  re-read  it. 
A  spasm  of  pain  that  was  almost  physical  pierced 
him.  His  hand  tightened  on  the  paper  till  it  was 
crumpled  and  twisted.  And  in  less  than  an  hour 
she  would  be  in  the  studio  with  him. 


The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates  241 

"  My  God,"  said  Paul  to  himself,  "  the  Fates  are 
very  cruel ! " 

And  then  because  throughout  the  day  his  first 
thought  had  been  of  Sara  he  began  to  plan  how 
best  to  break  the  news  to  her.  He  determined 
that  for  a  few  hours  at  least  she  should  not  know. 
She  should  have  the  complete  joy  of  the  meeting 
unmarred.  They  were  going  out  to  dine  together. 
When  they  returned  to  the  studio  it  would  be  time 
enough  to  tell  her.  With  the  decision  all  the  old 
quiet  endurance  he  had  learnt  through  days  and 
nights  of  hardship  came  back  to  Paul.  He  would 
hide  the  knowledge  of  their  parting  in  his  own 
heart.  Till  he  bade  her  good-bye  that  evening  she 
should  never  guess  what  the  world  would  really 
mean  to  them  both. 

Something  caught  at  his  throat  and  a  mist  swam 
before  his  eyes.  He  got  up  and  began  to  walk 
quickly  up  and  down  the  room.  Every  now  and 
then  his  hand,  still  holding  the  letter,  clenched 
tightly. 

Suddenly  he  realized  what  he  held.  He  stopped 
in  his  walk  and  put  the  letter  on  the  table.  He 
smoothed  it  out  tenderly,  as  if  it  had  been  some 
living  thing  he  had  injured.  He  folded  it  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket-book.  And  once  more  he  began  his 
walk. 

The  whole  place  seemed  full  of  her  presence. 
Everything  reminded  him  of  her,  the  chair  in 
which   she  sat,  the  glass  at  which  she  had  been 


242  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

wont  to  arrange  her  hat  when  she  was  sitting  for 
him,  the  vases  on  a  bookshelf,  for  which  she 
insisted  that  he  should  buy  flowers.  There  were 
flowers  in  them  to-day,  real  crimson  roses  — 
General  Jacqueminot,  with  its  sweet  old-fashioned 
scent.  For  the  future  they  would  remain  empty. 
It  would  be  useless  to  buy  flowers  if  she  was  not 
to  see  them.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  whole  life 
he  had  been  doing  everything  for  her,  and  that 
now  nothing  would  seem  worth  while.  He  caught 
at  his  underlip  with  his  teeth,  biting  it  hard.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  were  being  asked  to  bear  more  than 
human  strength  could  endure.  Then  all  at  once 
he  stopped  in  his  walk,  for  the  hoot  of  a  taxi  near 
at  hand  struck  on  his  ears. 

A  moment  later  he  heard  a  light  step  crossing 
the  courtyard.  The  door  opened.  She  was  in  the 
doorway  —  radiant,  living. 

"Paul." 

"  My  beloved." 

She  was  in  his  arms.  He  was  holding  her  as  if 
he  would  never  let  her  go. 

Love,  so  say  the  chroniclers  —  and  wrongly  —  is 
blind.  It  is  keen-sighted  as  an  eagle,  which  from 
afar  discerns  objects  invisible  to  the  sight  of  man. 

When  Paul  at  last  held  Sara  away  from  him, 
she  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  though  he  had  hidden 
his  sorrow  deep  down  in  his  heart  she  saw  sud- 
denly into  the  depths,  and  her  own  heart  momen- 


The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates  243 

tarily  stood  still.  But  also  with  her  love  and  her 
quick  woman's  instinct  she  saw  that  it  was  some- 
thing he  wished  to  keep  hidden,  and  so  she  did  not 
ask  him  then  what  it  was  he  was  hiding  from  her, 
but  smiled  at  him,  and  in  her  turn  hid  what  she  had 
guessed. 

So  throughout  the  evening  the  two  played  a 
game  of  pretence,  she  knowing  that  they  both  were 
playing  it,  and  he  —  man-like  —  believing  that  he 
was  the  sole  performer. 

They  went  to  an  hotel  together  and  dined,  and 
listened  to  a  band  which  was  making  music,  and 
they  talked  nonsenically  about  the  food  they  were 
eating  and  the  people  they  saw,  and  all  the  time  her 
heart  was  crying  to  him  to  drop  the  terrible  mask 
of  gaiety  and  tell  her  his  sorrow.  But  as  she  saw 
he  meant  to  play  the  game  she  told  him  of  her 
journey,  and  the  portrait  that  was  hanging  in  the 
gallery,  and  she  said  that  she  had  kissed  the  fauns 
good-bye.  And  then  quite  suddenly  she  stopped, 
because  she  saw  a  look  of  such  pain  come  into  his 
eyes  that  for  the  moment  she  was  dumb,  and 
pretence  seemed  useless.  But  almost  at  once  he 
laughed  and  made  some  little  light  speech;  and  she 
laughed  too,  and  bravely,  because  she  knew  he 
wished  it. 

But  when  at  last  they  were  back  in  the  studio 
she  could  play  the  terrible  little  game  no  longer. 
And  he  too  knew  that  the  moment  had  come  for  it 
to  cease. 


244  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"Paul,"  she  said  steadily,  "what  is  it?" 

"  You  guessed?  "  he  asked. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  sad  laugh,  "  I  knew 
at  once." 

"  Then  the  harlequin  game  has  been  no  good," 
he  said.  And  so  he  told  her.  And  when  he  had 
ended  there  was  a  long  silence. 

Sara  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  tell  you,"  she 
said,  "  that  this  makes  no  difference  to  our 
love." 

"But,"  said  Paul,  and  in  spite  of  himself  his 
voice  was  bitter,  "  it  does  to  our  marriage.  There 
is  no  way  out." 

And  with  the  words  silence  again  fell.  And 
in  the  silence  Sara  felt  a  slow  hatred  of  Giuseppe 
creep  into  her  heart.  He  could  have  made  this 
happiness  possible  to  her,  and  he  had  made  it 
impossible. 

She  did  not  dream  of  suggesting  that  they 
should  marry  in  spite  of  everything.  She  knew 
it  would  be  mere  mockery  to  do  so.  But  her  heart 
rebelled  fiercely  against  fate  and  against  the  late 
Duca  di  Corleone.  It  was  the  arrant  selfishness 
of  his  deed  that  angered  her.  She  had  been  his 
wife  faithful  and  courteous  when  he  was  living, 
and  in  return  he  claimed  her  life  when  he  was  dead, 
or  made  a  pauper  of  her. 

She  got  up  from  her  chair  and  began  to  move 
about  the  room.     In  mind  and  body  she  felt  like 


The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates  245 

a  caged  animal  beating  against  the  bars  which  kept 
it  from  freedom. 

She  paused  near  the  window.  Paul  saw  her 
figure  silhouetted  against  the  night  sky.  He 
watched  her.  And  suddenly  her  love  for  Paul  and 
every  fighting  instinct  within  her  rose  up  against 
the  injustice  of  the  Fates.  Defiance  of  their  decree 
and  intense  love  overwhelmed  her. 

"  There  —  is  a  way,"  she  said  slowly.  She  did 
not  turn  her  head.  Paul  saw  her  profile  immov- 
able against  the  square  of  grey-blue  window. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  came  across  to  her. 
He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  hard  against  his 
lips. 

"  You  honour  me,  Beloved,"  he  said.  "  But  it 
cannot  be." 

She  turned  towards  him  then. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  cried  almost  fiercely.  "  We 
love  each  other.  Is  not  that  enough  ?  Let  us  defy 
Giuseppe.  Do  you  think  I  care  what  the  world 
would  say  of  me  ?  " 

"  But  I  care,"  said  Paul  simply. 

"  More  than  you  care  for  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Beloved,"  said  Paul  huskily,  "  it  is  because  I 
love  you  —  because  you  are  more  than  the  whole 
world  to  me  that  I  cannot  let  there  be  the  smallest 
stain  upon  your  honour.  I  —  my  God,  how  I 
worship  you ! "  The  words  came  from  him  like  a 
cry. 

"  Ah,  Paul."     The  bitterness  in  her  heart  had 


246  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

melted,  and  with  it  her  strength.  He  held  her  in 
his  arms. 

"  Was  —  was  I  horrible  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  kissed  her  lips  fiercely.  "  You  were  wonder- 
ful, my  darling.  God  knows  the  generosity  of 
women.  But  there  are  some  sacrifices  a  man  cannot 
accept." 

"  It  would  have  been  none,"  she  whispered. 

He  held  her  closer.     "  You  think  not  now,  my 

darling.     But  later Dearest,  I  could  not  bear 

to  see  your  whiteness  stained  by  the  mud  the  world 
would  throw  at  you."  He  kissed  her  eyes  and 
hair. 

"What  is  to  be  the  end  of  it?"  she  asked. 
"What  must  we  do?" 

He  laughed  sadly.  "  There  is  only  one  thing  left 
for  us  to  do  —  we  must  say  good-bye." 

She  put  her  arms  round  him.  "  Ah,  not  that, 
Paul  — not  that." 

"  But  listen,  dearest,"  he  said.  "  We've  got 
to  look  at  things  as  they  are.  There  is  no  pro- 
fession open  to  me  in  which  I  am  likely  to  make 
more  than  I  can  by  my  painting.  I  have  lost 
every  penny  of  capital.  God!  how  sordid  it 
seems  that  the  lack  of  money  should  keep  us 
apart.  But  there  it  is.  It  may  be  years  before 
I  make  more,  though  Heaven  knows  I'd  paint 
every  commonplace  creature  in  creation  in  return 
for  shekels  now.  I  hate  my  own  fastidiousness. 
I've  lost  dozens  of  commissions  and  made  not  a 


The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates  247 

few  enemies.  It  will  take  ages  to  make  up  for 
my  folly.  At  the  best  it  must  be  years  before  I 
have  anything  like  a  decent  income."  He  stopped. 
He  had  loathed  having  to  speak  the  bare  common- 
place facts. 

"  I  will  wait,"  she  said. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  shaking, 
**  it  would  not  be  fair  to  let  you.  There  will  be 
other  men,  rich,  who " 

She  interrupted  by  a  gesture. 

"Do  you  count  my  love  as  little  as  that?"  she 
said.  "  Cannot  you  understand  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  for  me  but  my  love  for  you 
and  your  love  for  me.  If  you  believe  as  I  do  that 
we  belong  to  each  other  for  time  and  eternity,  then 

how  can  you ?"     She  could  get  no  further. 

He  stopped  her  with  such  kisses  that  she  was 
frightened  at  his  vehemence. 

"  Enough,"  he  said.  "  We  belong  to  each  other. 
One  day  I  will  claim  you." 

"And  till  then?"  she  asked. 

"  For  a  time,"  he  said  steadily,  "  we  must  not 
meet.     It  is  —  wiser  not." 

"Because  —  of  what  I  said?"  she  asked.  The 
crimson  colour  had  covered  her  face  and  neck. 

"  No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "  but  because  I  am 
only  a  man,  and  very  human." 

And  there  was  something  in  his  voice  that  told 
her  not  to  gainsay  him. 

"  But  at  least  we  will  write,"  she  said. 


248  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  would  be '  almost  the  same  as  seeing  you. 
There  would  come  a  day  when  the  sight  of  your 
writing  would  shake  my  resolve.  You,  if  you 
wrote,  could  only  tell  me  all  that  was  in  your  heart. 
What  use  else  to  write?  I  should  hear  your  heart 
calling  mine,  as  mine  will  call  to  you.  And  then 
one  day  my  resolution  would  fail.  And  if  it  did 
I  should  hate  myself,  and  count  myself  unworthy 
to  come  near  you  again." 

"  Then  never,  dear  heart,"  she  whispered. 

And  there  was  a  little  silence  too  sad  for  words 
or  tears.     It  was  Sara  who  broke  it. 

. "  Christopher  used  to  say,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
shaky  laugh,  "  that  I  could  cheat  the  Fates.  This 
time  I  cannot.  They  have  dealt  me  a  hand  full  of 
little  spades,  and  every  one  of  them  is  digging  the 
grave  of  my  happiness." 

"  Ah,  my  dearest,"  he  said. 

She  disengaged  herself  gently  from  him. 

"  And  since  for  a  time  at  least  we  both  must 
die,"  she  said,  "  we  had  better  die  at  once.  A 
lingering  death  is  so  painful."  Her  voice  shook. 
"  Good-bye,  Paul.  Don't  come  with  me.  I  want 
to  go  home  alone." 

"  Good-bye,  Beloved." 

Again  their  eyes  met.  And  he  caught  her  to 
him.     She  felt  his  body  shaking. 

"  Paul,"  she  whispered. 


The  Cruelty  of  the  Fates  249 

"  Beloved." 

And  then  he  took  her  to  the  door  and  held  it 
open  for  her.  She  went  out  through  the  court- 
yard in  the  twilight  of  the  summer  evening. 

And  the  little  faun,  holding  his  pipe  to  his  lips, 
made  no  sound,  for  he  knew  at  that  moment  no 
music  however  tender  could  bring  comfort  to  her 
heart. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN   YORKSHIRE 

AWAY  in  Yorkshire,  on  a  fell-side,  a  woman 
was  sitting  on  a  grey  stone  and  looking  at  the 
landscape  before  her. 

Below  her,  some  couple  of  hundred  feet,  ran  a 
little  brown  stream,  on  the  banks  of  which  a  man 
in  tweed  clothes  was  walking.  He  held  a  fishing- 
rod,  and  every  now  and  then  he  paused  to  cast  a 
fly  upon  the  water  with  a  light  and  dexterous 
hand. 

The  woman  watched  him  idly.  Later  he  would 
join  her  by  a  clump  of  trees  near  the  stream,  and 
they  would  have  luncheon  together.  The  man's 
name  was  Luke  Preston,  and  he  was  her  husband. 
They  had  been  married  exactly  a  fortnight 
previously,  and  were  now  spending  part  of  their 
honeymoon  in  Yorkshire. 

The  landscape,  and  particularly  the  sight  of 
the  distant  figure  by  the  stream,  gave  her  a  great 
sense  of  rest.  In  some  ways  Luke  was  like  the 
fells  around  her  she  thought  —  very  big,  very 
silent,  and  very  enduring.  It  was  the  unwavering 
assurance  of  Luke  that  had  first  attracted  him 
to  her.     There  was  something  so  unswerving  about 

250 


In  Yorkshire  251 

his  point  of  view.  It  was  so  direct.  There  were 
never  more  than  two  ways  in  his  mind  —  the  right 
and  the  wrong ;  never  more  than  two  colours  — 
black  and  white.  There  were  no  little  chance  by- 
paths, and  no  shades  of  grey  admissible.  Because 
of  this  some  people  found  Luke  lacking  in 
subtlety,  but  to  the  woman  he  had  married  it 
constituted  a  strength  which  she  found  very 
pleasant. 

All  her  life  she  had  been  swayed  by  varying 
moods.  Actions  seldom  appeared  to  her  in  a  light 
of  her  own  opinion.  They  became  black,  white,  or 
various  shades  of  lighter  or  darker  grey  as  they 
were  presented  to  her  by  the  minds  of  others. 
There  was  one  episode  only  in  her  life  in  which  she 
had  resolutely  adhered  to  her  own  determination. 
And  that  episode  was  one  she  wished  to  forget,  or 
to  remember  only  as  a  dream,  and  not  as  a  time 
connected  with  her  own  waking  self. 

It  had  all  happened  a  good  many  years  ago,  and 
some  people  have  a  curious  faculty  for  disconnect- 
ing themselves  mentally  from  their  own  past 
actions.  Sybil  Preston  was  one  of  these.  During 
the  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  episode  she  had 
had  one  thing  only  to  remind  her  of  it  —  a  quaint 
signet  ring,  with  which  she  had  never  had  the 
courage  to  part. 

On  the  way  up  to  Yorkshire,  the  very  day  of 
her  wedding,  she  had  lost  it.  She  fancied  it  must 
have  slipped   from  her  finger  as  she  had  waved 


252  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

to  a  small  girl  swinging  on  a  gate.  But  she  had 
not  discovered  her  loss  till  the  evening  when  they 
had  stopped  for  the  night  at  an  hotel.  In  a  sense 
she  regretted  the  loss,  yet  on  the  other  hand  she 
could  not  help  feeling  it  a  relief.  She  regarded  it 
in  a  way  as  a  kind  of  omen  —  a  sign  that  the  past 
was  banished  forever,  especially  as  the  loss  had 
occurred  on  the  very  day  she  had  entered  her  new 
life. 

The  episode  was  known  only  to  herself  and  to 
one  other  living  person  —  a  woman  friend  of  hers. 
She  had  no  smallest  fear  but  that  Cecily  Main- 
waring  had  kept  silence  regarding  it  —  would 
always  keep  silence.  She  was  a  woman  with 
extraordinary  strength  of  character  and  great 
reserve.  She  had  always  been  a  staunch  friend 
of  Sybil's.  Sybil  herself  had  sometimes  marvelled 
that  in  this  matter  she  had  been  able  to  stand 
firm  against  Cecily's  opinion ;  in  fact,  to  persuade 
her  to  her  own  point  of  view  regarding  it. 
Though,  to  be  strictly  truthful,  Cecily  had  never 
adopted  Sybil's  point  of  view,  she  had  acted 
contrary  to  her  own  judgment,  and  purely  from 
her  unswerving  friendship  to  Sybil.  They  had 
never  again  referred  to  the  matter.  Sybil  had  seen 
considerably  less  of  Cecily  after  it.  She  had  never 
felt  entirely  comfortable  in  her  presence.  Cecily's 
eyes  were  too  terribly  truthful.  They  were  not 
unlike  Luke's  eyes. 


In  Yorkshire  253 

Sybil,  sitting  up  on  the  moorland,  heaved  an 
enormous  sigh  of  relief  at  the  thought  that  he 
could  never  have  the  smallest  suspicion  of  that 
episode.  She  knew  that  deceit  of  any  kind  was 
the  one  thing  Luke  could  never  forgive.  She 
knew,  however,  that  she  was  perfectly  safe.  She 
would  soon  be  safe  herself  from  all  memory  of 
it.  To-morrow  they  were  returning  to  London, 
and  a  month  hence  they  were  sailing  for  India. 
Luke  was  in  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  and  would 
be  returning  after  a  year's  leave.  For  some  years 
at  least  they  would  be  out  of  England,  and  there 
would  be  no  chance  of  meeting  Cecily,  who  just 
served  to  remind  her  of  things  she  now  wanted  to 
forget  entirely. 

And  then  she  saw  her  husband  winding  in  his 
line  and  waving  to  her.  She  got  up  and  went  down 
the  side  of  the  fell  towards  him. 

"  Been  lonely,  little  girl  ?  "  he  asked,  putting  his 
arm  round  her.  "  I've  got  five  beauties.  We'll 
have  them  for  supper  to-night.  Now  come  along 
and  have  some  lunch.     I'm  simply  ravenous." 

"  So  am  I,"  laughed  Sybil.  "  What  a  glorious 
place  it  is,  and  how  delicious  the  air  is,  and  how 
utterly  happy  I  am." 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  and  bent  to  kiss  her. 

They  walked  towards  the  clump  of  trees  where 
Luke  had  left  a  knapsack  containing  various 
eatables.     They  were  simple  enough  —  a  couple  of 


254  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

packets  of  sandwiches,  a  couple  of  pieces  of  cake, 
and  a  flask  of  claret.  He  was  not  the  man  to 
burden  himself  with  unnecessary  food. 

Sybil  sat  down  on  the  grass,  leaning  back  against 
a  tree-trunk. 

"  I  wish  we  could  stay  on  here,"  she  said.  "  It 
would  be  infinitely  pleasanter  than  going  back  to 
town." 

"  Infinitely,"  said  Luke,  taking  a  great  bite  of 
chicken  sandwich. 

"  Then  why  not  write  and  tell  your  people  that 
we  can't  come,  and  that  we're  staying  on  here." 

Luke  laughed.  "  Because,  darling,  there  is  no 
earthly  reason  beyond  our  own  inclination  to 
prevent  us  going  back  to  London.  And  I  promised 
my  parents  that  we  would  come  to  them  during  the 
last  part  of  July.  They  go  down  to  Henley  in 
August,  and  their  cottage  is  too  small  to  take  us 
in  there." 

Sybil  pouted.  "  Can't  you  get  out  of  it, 
though  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  could  sprain  my  ankle,  or 
break  my  leg,  or  something,  and  be  unable  to 
travel." 

Luke  frowned.  "  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say 
that,  Sybil.  Of  course  you  don't  mean  it,  but  that 
you  should  even  suggest  in  fun  that  you  could  make 
an  untrue  statement " 

Sybil  interrupted  him  quickly.  "Of  course  I 
didn't  mean  it,  Luke  darling.  It  was  only  rather 
a  stupid  bit  of  nonsense.     I   wouldn't  break  our 


In  Yorkshire  255 

promise  for  worlds,  and  you  know  I  love  your 
people.  It  was  just  the  thought  of  this  heavenly 
place   that  tempted   me.     Besides,   I   have   you  to 

myself  up  here.     I'm  not  sharing  you  with  any- 

>> 

one. 

The  last  two  sentences  were  the  outcome  of 
genuine  affection  on  Sybil's  part.  She  was 
honestly  devoted  to  her  big  husband.  And 
though  at  times  she  would  have  preferred  him  to 
be  a  little  less  literal,  his  strength  and  assurance 
of  purpose,  as  already  mentioned,  appealed  to  her 
enormously. 

Her  last  two  sentences,  in  fact  her  whole  speech, 
pleased  Luke.  He  patted  her  hand  and  looked  at 
her  with  tender  eyes.  He  loved  her  from  the  very 
bottom  of  his  extremely  truthful  heart.  He  had 
placed  her  carefully  on  a  little  pedestal  of  his  own 
building,  and  her  first  remark  had  distressed  him, 
as  it  had  caused  her  to  sway  a  trifle  unsteadily  on 
the  same  pedestal. 

As  soon  as  they  had  finished  lunch  he  returned 
to  his  fishing,  and  she  strolled  across  some  fields  to 
a  little  pond  in  a  bit  of  heathery  moorland,  where 
she  found  some  sundew  and  a  bog  violet. 

It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  before  they  went 
back  to  the  little  white  cottage  in  the  small  village. 
They  found  that  the  evening  post  had  come  in,  and 
with  it  a  couple  of  letters  and  a  London  paper. 

"  Wonder  why  this  has  been  sent  ?  "  asked  Luke, 
opening     it.     "  We've     been     eschewing     London 


256  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

papers  since  we've  been  up  here.  The  '  Yorkshire 
Post '  is  quite  good  enough  on  a  holiday."  He 
turned  the  pages.  "  Oh,  it's  Talbot's  wedding " 
—  Talbot  had  been  his  best  man.  "  Ah,  well, 
that  kind  of  rigmarole  will  interest  you  far  more 
than  me.  I've  no  use  for  other  people's  weddings. 
I'm  quite  satisfied  with  my  own.  Eh!  little 
girl?" 

Sybil  laughed,  returned  his  kiss,  and  went  up- 
stairs to  take  off  her  hat. 

Later  in  the  evening  she  took  up  the  paper,  and 
because  she  had  nothing  else  to  read  she  studied 
the  pages  rather  carefully.  Suddenly  an  advertise- 
ment caught  her  eye.  She  read  it  slowly,  then  put 
down  the  paper.  It  told  her  that  her  ring  had  been 
found,  and  that  she  could  get  it  by  applying  at  a 
certain  address. 

For  a  moment  she  decided  that  she  would  take 
no  notice  of  the  advertisement.  Then  it  occurred 
to  her  that  there  might  be  the  smallest  element 
of  risk  in  leaving  the  ring  in  other  hands.  It  was 
certainly  unique,  and  once  seen  not  likely  to  be 
forgotten.  No  doubt  other  people  had  seen  and 
observed  it  long  before  it  had  come  into  her 
hands  —  people  who  had  known  its  previous 
owner. 

They  were  going  back  to  London  to-morrow. 
If  Luke  saw  the  advertisement  he  would  at  once 
recognize  it  as  a  description  of  the  ring  she  had 
worn.     She  had  told  him  that   Cecily  had  given 


In  Yorkshire  257 

it  to  her.  He  had  mentioned  it  once  to  Cecily  as 
her  gift  to  Sybil.  Sybil  remembered  the  tiny  trace 
of  scorn  in  Cecily's  eyes  at  the  lie,  though  she  had 
not  contradicted  the  statement. 

If  Luke  saw  the  advertisement  he  would 
promptly  go  and  fetch  the  ring  for  her,  and  then 
there  was  no  knowing  whether  he  would  not  learn 
something  of  its  previous  history.  She  knew  it 
was  ridiculous  to  imagine  such  a  thing,  and  yet  she 
felt  that  she  dared  run  no  tiniest  risk. 

Whoever  had  found  the  ring  was  advertising 
the  fact  assiduously,  for  the  loss  was  now  a  fort- 
night old.  They  might  continue  to  advertise. 
The  moment  she  got  back  to  London  she  would 
go  to  the  address  given  by  Mr.  Kirby  and  claim 
the  ring.  And  perhaps  on  the  way  out  to  India 
she  would  drop  it  overboard.  She  wanted  to 
forget.  Whatever  Sybil's  faults  and  weaknesses 
she  was  genuinely  in  love  with  Luke. 

She  crumpled  the  paper  in  her  hand,  managing 
to  tear  the  advertisement.     She  would  run  no  risk. 

Luke  looked  up  with  a  big  yawn. 

"Read  the  account  of  the  wedding?"  he  asked. 
*'  They  were  going  to  Biarritz,  weren't  they?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sybil. 

"  Ah,  well,  I  want  all  I  can  get  out  of  old 
England.  I  don't  have  too  much  of  her.  And 
now,  little  girl,  how  about  bed?"  He  heaved 
himself  out  of  his  chair. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  did  you  read 


258  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

the  account  of  the  exhibition  of  pictures  at  the 
Grafton  Galleries?  I  see  there's  a  portrait  ex- 
hibited there  by  a  fellow  named  John  Kirby." 

Sybil  thought  of  the  advertisement  and  her  heart 
stood  suddenly  still,  then  began  to  race  furiously, 
though  she  had  no  real  notion  why  it  was  doing  so. 

"  Do  you  know  the  man  ? "  she  asked  care- 
lessly. 

"  We  were  at  school  together,"  said  Luke. 
"  I've  seen  him  occasionally  since  then.  He  took 
up  painting.  I  haven't  looked  him  up  this  time 
or  let  him  know  I  was  in  England  —  don't  know 
why.  If  I've  time  I  might  look  him  up  before  I 
leave." 

The  simple  statement  troubled  Sybil.  She 
felt  that  she  must  get  the  ring  from  Mr.  Kirby 
before  her  husband  should  see  him.  She  had  no 
reason  for  feeling  this,  but  the  idea  was  strong  upon 
her,  though  she  told  herself  it  was  entirely  absurd. 

"  You're  looking  tired,  little  girl,"  said  Luke 
solicitously.     "  Hope  you  didn't  overwalk  to-day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I'm  sleepy,  that's 
all.  I'll  go  up  now  and  leave  you  to  have  your 
last  pipe  in  the  garden." 

She  left  the  room  and  Luke  strolled  into  the 
garden,  where  he  smoked  under  the  quiet  stars,  and 
sniffed  the  night  air,  and  watched  the  light  in 
Sybil's  room  with  a  feeling  of  great  content.  The 
world,  in  his  opinion,  was  an  extraordinarily 
pleasant  place. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
pippa's  mother 

MISS  MASON  was  in  her  studio  having  tea. 
Barnabas  was  with  her.  He  invariably- 
dropped  in  at  tea-time  unless  he  was  giving  a  tea- 
party  on  his  own  account. 

Pippa  had  gone  with  Alan  to  look  at  flats.  The 
occupation  was  an  intense  joy  to  her.  If  he  had 
decided  on  all  the  flats  on  which  she  had  set  her 
heart  he  would  have  taken  at  least  a  dozen,  and  he 
and  Aurora  would  have  lived  in  one  at  a  time 
during  each  of  the  twelve  months  of  the  year. 
Hitherto,  notwithstanding  Pippa's  enthusiasm 
regarding  them,  he  had  not  found  one  that  quite 
came  up  to  his  requirements.  Tea  being  finished, 
Barnabas  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  I  must  take  you  to  call  on  Mrs.  McAndrew 
soon,"  said  Barnabas.  "  She  and  Andrew  have 
got  a  minute  flat  quite  close  to  his  studio.  She's 
a  delightful  old  lady.  You  will  like  her,  and  her 
Scotch  is,  if  anything,  broader  than  Andrew's. 
I've  never  seen  a  fellow  so  gloriously  happy  as  he 
is.  We  look  upon  you,  Aunt  Olive,  as  a  kind  of 
fairy-godmother,  who  has  only  to  touch  people's 

259 


260  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

lives  with  a  magic  wand  to  ensure  their  happi- 
ness." 

Miss  Mason  laughed  gruffly. 

"  That,"  she  said,  "  is  quite  the  nicest  thing  I've 
ever  had  said  to  me.  I  know  my  own  life  has  been 
a  kind  of  glorious  fairy-tale  lately." 

"  Life,"  said  Barnabas,  "  is  a  fairy-tale,  if  only 
one  can  believe  it." 

"  But,"  said  Aunt  Olive,  "  one  comes  in  touch 
with  bad  fairies  on  occasions." 

"  I  know,"  nodded  Barnabas  gravely.  "  But 
I  fancy  there  are  some  people  who  have  the  magic 
wand  that  can  transform  them  into  good  ones." 

"  It's  a  comfortable  belief,"  said  Miss  Mason. 

Sally  opened  the  studio  door. 

"  A  lady  to  see  Mr.  Kirby,  ma'am,"  she  said. 
"  She  says  she  has  come  about  an  advertisement  of 
a  ring." 

"  At  last,"  said  Barnabas,  and  he  got  up. 

"  Show  her  in,"  said  Miss  Mason.  And  the  next 
minute  Sybil  Preston  entered  the  studio.  Half- 
way into  the  room  she  stopped. 

"  Granny !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Miss  Mason  got  up  from  her  chair. 

"  Bless  me !  "  she  said  in  an  excited  voice,  "  it's 
little  Sybil  Quarly.  Sally,  bring  fresh  tea  at 
once." 

Sybil  sat  down  by  the  table  in  a  chair  put  for  her 
by  Barnabas. 

"  Of  all  the  extraordinary  things,"  she  laughed, 


Pippa's  Mother  261 

"  that  I  should  walk  quietly  into  this  studio  and 
find  you.     It  must  be  fifteen  years  since  we  met." 

"  And  eleven  since  I  heard  from  you,"  said  Miss 
Mason. 

Sybil  flushed  faintly.  "  I'm  a  shocking  letter 
writer,"  she  said.  "  I  never  write  letters.  But 
indeed  I  had  not  forgotten  you." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  So  the 
ring  is  yours.  Just  fancy  that  through  your 
losing  it,  and  Mr.  Kirby's  advertisement,  we  should 
meet  again.  I've  got  it  quite  safely  for  you." 
She  got  up  and  took  it  from  a  small  box.  "  Here 
it  is." 

Sybil  held  out  her  hand  for  it.  Suddenly  she 
became  aware  that  Barnabas  was  watching  her. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said  to  him,  with  a  little 
nervous  laugh,  "  that  you  know  my  husband,  Luke 
Preston.  He  was  speaking  of  you  only  the  other 
day,  and  saying  that  he  must  look  you  up." 

Barnabas  smiled.  "  What,  old  Luke ! "  he 
exclaimed.  "Of  course  I  knew  him.  We  were  at 
school  together." 

"  Then  you  are  married  ?  "  said  Miss  Mason. 

"Barely  three  weeks  ago.  We  went  to  York- 
shire for  part  of  our  honeymoon.  It  was  on  the 
way  up  I  lost  my  ring.  We  were  quite  rural  up 
there,  and  saw  no  papers  but  the  '  Yorkshire 
Post.'  It  was  only  by  chance  that  a  London  paper 
was  sent  us,  and  I  saw  the  advertisement,  so 
I " 


262  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

She  broke  off.  She  had  suddenly  seen  the 
picture  of  Pippa  standing  by  the  faun.  Both 
figures  were  life-size. 

"  Who,"  she  asked,  "  is  that  ?  "  Her  eyes  were 
dilated,  her  breath  coming  quickly. 

"  That  is  Pippa,"  said  Miss  Mason ;  "  a  little  girl 
I  have  adopted." 

Barnabas  was  again  watching  Sybil. 

"  She  is,"  he  said  quietly,  "  extraordinarily  like 
a  man  I  once  knew,  a  great  friend  of  mine  — 
Philippe  Kostolitz." 

Sybil  stared  at  him  with  wide  eyes.  There  was 
a  trace  of  fear  in  them. 

"  You  knew  Philippe  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Barnabas,  still  quietly. 

Miss  Mason's  keen  old  eyes  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  them. 

"  And  what,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  did  you  know 
of  him?" 

Sybil  gave  a  little  sob.  "  He  —  he  was  my 
husband,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  room.  Then 
Miss  Mason  put  a  question.  It  seemed  forced  from 
her: 

"  Did  you  have  a  child?  " 

Sybil  bowed  her  head. 

"  Shall  I  go  away  ?  "  asked  Barnabas. 

"  No,  stay,"  said  Sybil.  "  I  suppose  you  guessed 
something  the  moment  I  came  to  claim  the  ring. 
Since  you  knew  Philippe  you  must  have  known  it 


Pippa's  Mother  263 

belonged  to  him.  You  had  better  hear  the  story. 
God  knows  what  I  am  going  to  do  now."  Her  lips 
quivered.  She  looked  like  a  piteous,  frightened 
child. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason  gently,  "  if  there 
is  any  way  in  which  we  can  help  you,  we  will.  Tell 
us  as  much  as  you  can." 

Sybil  drew  a  long  breath.  She  looked  at  Miss 
Mason.  She  tried  to  forget  that  Barnabas  was 
present,  though  she  wished  him  to  remain. 

"  You  know,"  she  began,  "  that  we  went  to  live 
at  Pangbourne.  A  year  after  we  went  there  I 
met  Philippe.  He  was  staying  with  some  friends 
near  us.  We  saw  a  good  bit  of  each  other  one  way 
and  another,  and  —  and  we  began  to  care.  .  .  . 

"  My  mother  must  have  guessed  it,  for  she 
suddenly  began  to  prevent  my  seeing  him.  But 
one  day  he  came  straight  to  my  father  and  said 
he  loved  me.  .  .  .  My  father  was  furious.  He 
said  he  would  never  hear  of  his  daughter  marrying 
a  vagabond  artist,  a  man  who  spent  half  his  life 
on  the  roads  like  any  tramp,  and  the  other  half 
in  a  studio  messing  with  common  clay.  You 
know  my  father  never  did  like  art,  and  he  looked 
on  all  artists  with  contempt.  He  never  believed 
that  they  were  gentlemen.  You  know,  he  never 
believed  that  anyone  who  did  anything  for  their 
livelihood  was  one.  And  he  couldn't  conceive  it 
possible  that  the  love  of  the  work  and  not  money 
was  Philippe's  motive  in  his  art.     At  any  rate,  h§ 


264  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

sent  Philippe  away.  I  was  quite  miserable,  but 
hadn't  the  courage  to  gainsay  him,  and  my  mother 
was  quite  as  bad.  .  .  . 

"  Six  months  later  I  was  staying  with  some 
friends  in  Hampshire  for  a  fortnight.  I  was  to  go 
on  from  there  to  another  friend  —  Cecily  Main- 
waring  —  for  a  month.  Cecily  lives  in  London. 
One  day  while  I  was  in  Hampshire  I  was  out  for  a 
walk  alone,  when  I  met  Philippe.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  it's  no  use  my  trying  to  tell  you  how 
glad  I  was  to  see  him.  When  he  knew  I  was  stay- 
ing at  Andover  he  remained  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  we  used  to  meet  almost  daily.  I'd  always 
gone  for  long  walks  alone.  We  used  to  spend 
hours  together  in  Harewood  Forest,  and  he  used 
to  make  all  kinds  of  plans.  First  he  wanted  me 
to  defy  my  parents  and  run  away  with  him  and 
marry  him.  But  I  hadn't  the  courage.  I  said 
that  perhaps  in  time  they'd  consent.  Then  he 
thought  of  another  plan  and  begged  me  to  consent 
to  it.  We  were  to  be  married  and  keep  it  a  secret 
from  my  people.  I  was  to  spend  a  month  with 
him  in  some  little  country  place  instead  of  staying 
with  Cecily.  Then  I  was  to  go  home,  and  he  was 
to  come  down  and  use  all  his  influence  with  my 
parents,  and  if  it  failed  we  would  have  to  tell 
them.  He  begged  me  so  that  at  last  I  consented. 
At  the  back  of  my  mind  I  thought  that  if  my 
parents  were  still  obdurate  I  could  persuade 
Philippe  not  to  tell  them.     At  least  I'd  have   a 


Pippa's  Mother  265 

month  with  him.  I  wasn't  nineteen,  and  I  never 
though  of  what  —  what  might  happen.  .  .  ."  She 
stopped,  her  face  crimson. 

"  Yes,  dear  ?  "  said  Miss  Mason  gently. 

"  Philippe  went  away  then  to  make  arrange- 
ments, and  I  stayed  on  three  days  longer  with 
my  friends.  I  left  them  ostensibly  to  go  to  Cecily. 
I  met  Philippe  instead.  .  .  .  We  were  married 
at  a  tiny  church.  He  had  got  a  special  license. 
He  didn't  like  it  not  being  his  own  church,  but 
as  I  was  a  Catholic  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  arrange  that.  At  all  events,  the  marriage  was 
legal,  and  he  thought  that  perhaps  we'd  be 
married  again  in  his  own  church  when  my  parents 
knew.  But  of  course  that  didn't  trouble  me.  We 
went  to  Wales  together,  to  a  little  village  there. 
Any  letters  that  might  be  written  to  me  went  to 
Cecily.  I  wrote  to  her  and  told  her  I  was  on  a 
motor  tour  with  friends  and  my  visit  to  her  must 
be  postponed ;  that  I  wasn't  sure  when  I  could  come 
home  to  her.  And  I  asked  her  to  keep  any  letters 
for  me  till  I  came.  Cecily  was  quite  unsuspecting, 
and  did  so. 

"  I  was  gloriously  happy  with  Philippe.  Occa- 
sionally I  was  frightened  at  what  I  had  done, 
but  when  he  was  with  me  I  only  thought  about 
him  and  my  happiness.  One  day  he  went  into 
Shrewsbury  by  train.  ...  I  was  going  with  him, 
but  I  had  such  a  bad  headache  that  at  the  last 
moment  I  persuaded  him  to  go  alone.     He  was 


266  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

to  have  come  back  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
.  .  .  He  didn't  come,  and  I  got  uneasy.  I  went 
down  towards  the  station.  .  .  .  Then  I  heard 
there  had  been  a  frightful  railway  accident  only 
three  miles  outside  the  station.  ...  I  went  to 
the  place.  ...  I  don't  know  how  I  got  there. 
Ever  so  many  people  were  going.  .  .  .  They 
carried  the  people  from  the  train  to  cottages  and 
barns.  ...  I  found  Philippe  in  one  of  them.  .  .  ." 
Sybil's  voice  shook  and  she  stopped. 

"  We  know,  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Don't 
try  to  tell  us." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  At  last  Sybil  went 
on: 

"  When  I  saw  that  he  was  dead  I  suddenly 
realized  what  I  had  done.  I  knew  there  was  no 
one  to  stand  between  me  and  my  parents'  anger. 
.  .  .  And  then  men  came  who  began  to  ask  ques- 
tions of  the  people  present  .  .  .  wanting  them  to 
identify.  .  .  ."     Again  Sybil  stopped. 

"  I  ran  away,"  she  went  on  pitifully.  "  I 
couldn't  bear  to  be  asked  anything.  I  thought 
perhaps  no  one  would  ever  know.  I  thought  it 
would  be  so  much  easier  if  they  didn't.  ...  I 
got  back  to  the  cottage  and  packed  a  few  things. 
.  .  .  All  the  people  were  out  at  —  at  the  place. 
We  had  given  them  an  assumed  name.  I  thought 
they'd  never  know  who  we  were.  ...  Of  course, 
afterwards  they  knew  about  Philippe,  I  suppose, 
when    he   was    identified.     I    saw    in    the   papers 


Pippa's  Mother  267 

that  letters  were  found  on  him.  .  .  .  Someone 
went  there,  a  friend  of  his.  I've  forgotten  the 
name.  .  .  ." 

"  I  went,"  said  Barnabas.  "  It  is  strange  that 
there  was  no  mention  of  you.  I  suppose  the  people 
at  the  rooms  where  you  stayed  wished  to  keep  out 
of  being  questioned,  so  did  not  come  forward. 
However,  that's  no  matter  now." 

"  I  left  money  to  pay  for  our  lodging,"  went 
on  Sybil,  "  and  just  ran  away.  I  walked  a  long 
distance  to  another  little  station  and  took  a  train 
to  Hereford.  From  there  I  went  to  London.  I 
got  there  in  the  early  morning.  I  waited  about 
in  the  station  till  nearly  lunch-time.  Then  I 
drove  to  Cecily's  flat.  I  had  sent  my  luggage  — 
at  least  most  of  it  —  to  her  from  Andover.  I'd 
only  taken  a  little  box  and  a  handbag  to  Wales. 
I  left  the  box  behind  at  the  rooms.  There  was 
nothing  in  it  that  could  betray  my  name.  I  took 
the  handbag  away  with  me.  When  I  saw  Cecily 
I  just  said  that  the  tour  had  ended  unexpectedly, 
and  that  I  hadn't  been  well.  I  stayed  with  her  a 
week.  That  week  and  the  three  weeks  in  Wales 
just  made  up  the  month  I  was  supposed  to  be  with 
her.     Then  I  went  home.  .  .  . 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  explain  what  I  thought, 
nor  how  wretched  I  was.  I  don't  think  I  quite 
knew  myself.  It  didn't  seem  I  who  was  acting, 
but  just  something  or  somebody  outside  myself. 
If  I  really  thought  of  anything  it  was  only  that 


268  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

I  could  never  face  my  parents'  anger.  So  all  the 
time  I  was  planning  and  thinking  how  best  to  be- 
have that  they  should  never  know.  It  sounds 
dreadful  now,  but  then  it  didn't  seem  fair  that  I 
should  only  have  three  weeks'  happiness,  and  for 
that  bear  the  whole  brunt  of  their  anger  alone.  I 
soon  found  that  I  need  not  fear  them  guessing. 
They  never  suspected  that  I  had  not  been  with 
Cecily  the  whole  time.  ...  As  the  weeks  passed  I 
began  to  think  myself  that  everything  that  had  hap- 
pened had  been  a  dream.  ...  It  wasn't  exactly 
that  I  forgot  Philippe,  only  I  tried  to  pretend  it 
had  never  been  a  reality.  .  .  .  And  then  all  at  once 
I  realized  that  it  wasn't  a  dream  .  .  .  that  it  never 
had  been  .  .  .  and  no  amount  of  thinking  could 
turn  it  into  one.  ...  I  used  to  pass  whole  nights 
of  terror  wondering  what  I  could  do.  ...  If  I  had 
only  told  my  parents  at  once  it  would  have  been  so 
much  easier.  .  .  .  Even  though  they  would  have 
been  terribly  angry,  at  least  I  was  married  to 
Philippe.  .  .  .  But  now  I  felt  I  could  never  tell 
them.  .  .  . 

"  At  last  I  thought  of  Cecily.  I  wrote  to  ask 
her  to  let  me  stay  with  her.  I  went;  and  then  I 
told  her  everything.  .  .  .  Cecily  was  very  good  to 
me.  She  begged  and  implored  me  to  tell  my  people, 
but  I  wouldn't,  and  I  cried  so  much  she  thought 
I'd  be  ill,  and  at  last  she  promised  to  help  me  and 
do   everything  I   wanted.  .  .  .  We  went  over  to 


Pippa's  Mother  269 

France.  My  father  was  quite  willing  for  me  to 
travel  about  with  Cecily,  and  kept  me  well  supplied 
with  money.  We  were  in  France  moving  about  in 
different  places  the  whole  winter.  In  March  we 
took  rooms  at  St.  Germain.  .  .  .  It  —  it  was  there 
the  child  was  born.  ...  I  wouldn't  see  it.  ...  I 
didn't  even  want  to  know  if  it  were  a  boy  or  a 
girl.  .  .  .  but  Cecily  would  tell  me.  She  had  it 
christened  Philippa.  ...  I  didn't  want  to  see  it  be- 
cause I  didn't  want  to  get  fond  of  it.  The  nurse 
thought  it  was  just  queerness  on  my  part  because  I 
was  so  weak.  Cecily  arranged  everything.  Just 
after  the  nurse  left,  and  when  I  was  well  enough  to 
travel,  she  took  the  baby  away.  ...  I  was  so  glad 
when  it  went.  Its  crying  always  reminded  me  that 
it  was  there.  It  made  me  remember,  and  I  wanted 
so  dreadfully  to  forget.  .  .  . 

"  When  Cecily  came  back  to  me  alone  I  told 
her  we'd  never  speak  of  it  again.  .  .  .  We  never 
have.  ...  I  sent  her  money.  .  .  .  My  father  al- 
ways gave  me  a  good  dress  allowance.  Out  of 
that  I  paid  for  the  child.  ...  I  wanted  it  to  be  in 
France.  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  it  speaking 
with  a  common  English  accent.  .  .  ." 

Barnabas,  who  had  been  looking  on  the  ground 
during  most  of  the  recital,  now  looked  up  quickly. 
What  an  extraordinary  anomaly  the  woman  was. 
She  could  banish  from  her  mind  all  memory  of 
the  man  she  had  loved,  she  could  forsake  the  child 


270  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

he  had  given  her,  and  yet  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  its  learning  to  speak  with  a  common 
accent. 

"  Have  you,"  asked  Miss  Mason,  "  any  idea 
where  the  child  was  left?" 

"  In  Paris,"  said  Sybil  quickly.  "  Cecily  told 
me  the  name  of  the  woman  when  she  came  back. 
I  didn't  want  to  know,  but  I  wasn't  able  to  stop 
her.     It  was  Madame  Barbin." 

Miss  Mason  sighed.  "  Then,"  she  said,  "  there 
is  no  question  but  that  the  child  who  came  to  my 
studio  last  December  is  your  daughter." 

Sybil  looked  at  the  picture.  "  She  is  exactly 
like  Philippe,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  how  she  came 
to  you." 

So  Miss  Mason  told  the  story. 

"  I  must  write  to  Cecily  and  tell  her  to  stop  send- 
ing money  to  Madame  Fournier,"  said  Sybil  when 
she  had  ended. 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence.  It  was  broken 
by  Sybil. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  never  told 
Luke  I'd  been  married  before.  He  knows  nothing. 
And  now  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  want  my 
little  girl.     It's  odd,  isn't  it?  " 

Miss  Mason  looked  straight  before  her.  Her 
face  had  paled  a  little,  and  her  voice  was  not  quite 
steady  as  she  answered: 

"  You  must  tell  him  now." 

Sybil  drew  in  her  breath  quickly.     "  I  can't  do 


Pippa's  Mother  271 

that.  You  don't  know  Luke.  He'd  never  for- 
give me  —  never.     And  I  love  him." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason  quietly,  "  are  you 
sure  he  wouldn't?  Remember,  he  loves  you,  and 
love " 

"Ah,"  said  Sybil,  with  a  little  laugh  that  was 
almost  a  sob,  "you're  a  woman.  Men  aren't  like 
that.  At  least,  Luke  isn't.  If  he  knew  I  had  de- 
ceived him  he  wouldn't  love  me  any  more." 

Miss  Mason  looked  at  Barnabas.  Perhaps  a 
man's  judgment  in  the  matter  would  be  of  use. 

"  Mrs.  Preston  is  right,"  said  Barnabas.  "  If 
she  had  told  him  before  she  married  him  it  would 

have  been  different.     Now You  see,  I  know 

her  husband." 

"  But "    said    Miss    Mason,    and    stopped. 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  For  her  own  sake 
she  wanted  silence.  Yet  to  her  candid  mind  fur- 
ther deceit  was  terribly  distressing. 

Sybil  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  them. 
She  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  in  the  presence  of  a 
jury  awaiting  their  verdict. 

"  May  I,"  said  Barnabas,  "  say  just  how  the 
situation  strikes  me  ?  " 

"  Please  do,"  said  Sybil  quietly.  She  leant  back 
a  little  in  her  chair. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Barnabas,  "  that  you 
cannot  only  look  at  the  right  or  wrong  of  the  mat- 
ter entirely  from  your  own  point  of  view.  There 
are  two  other  people  to  be  considered  —  your  hus- 


272  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

band  and  the  child.  Knowing  Luke  I  fear  it  is  a 
matter  in  which  he  would  not  forgive  the  deceit. 
He  is  not  a  man  who  would  see  any  extenuating 
circumstances  in  the  case.  He  would  not  even 
understand  your  having  been  first  persuaded  into  a 
secret  marriage." 

"  Can  you  understand  it  ?  "  asked  Sybil  quickly. 
There  was  a  little  flush  of  colour  in  her  face. 

"  I  can,"  said  Barnabas.  "  I  can  see  the  whole 
situation  very  clearly  —  your  fear  of  your  parents' 
anger  and  Philippe's  persuasions.  It  would  not  be 
easy  for  a  woman  who  loved  Philippe  to  withstand 
him.  I,  who  knew  him,  can  understand  that. 
Luke  did  not  know  him?  " 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Sybil  as  he  stopped.  She  looked 
at  him  intently.  "  But,"  she  went  on,  "  you  don't 
understand  the  rest  of  my  action?" 

"  Frankly,  no,"  said  Barnabas.  "  I  can't  under- 
stand your  silence  afterwards  when  it  came  to  your 
desertion  of  his  child.  I  have,  though,  no  right 
to  sit  in  judgment  on  anyone;  and  please  under- 
stand that  I'm  not  judging  you.  But  I  am  quite 
sure  that  Luke  would  not  take  a  lenient  view.  If 
he  forgave  at  all  —  and  I  honestly  doubt  his  for- 
giveness—  duty  would  make  him  offer  the  child 
a  home.  In  fact,  he  would  probably  insist  on  your 
having  the  child  with  you.  But,"  and  Barnabas' 
voice  was  firm,  "he  would  never,  forget.  And, 
however  strong  his  sense  of  duty,  there  would  al- 
ways be  a  barrier  between  him  and  the  child.     It 


Pippa's  Mother  273 

would  not  be  good  for  her.  Also  there  is  no  ques- 
tion but  that  your  husband's  confidence  and  happi- 
ness would  be  destroyed.  He  stopped.  He  felt 
every  word  he  had  said.  He  was  sorry  for  the 
woman,  but  Luke  and  Pippa  could  not  be  sacri- 
ficed, and  to  speak  now  would  mean  the  sacrifice 
of  both  their  lives. 

"Then ?"  asked  Sybil,  her  eyes  upon  the 

ground. 

"  In  my  opinion,"  said  Barnabas,  "  having  kept 
silence,  you  owe  it  to  your  husband  to  keep  silence 
still ;  in  fact,  for  ever.  The  child  has  a  home  now, 
and  one  who  cares  for  her.  For  her  sake,  too,  I 
do  not  think  you  should  run  the  risk  of  taking  her 
to  a  home  where  she  would  be  unwelcome.  She  is 
extraordinarily  sensitive.  She  would  feel  it  now, 
and  more  as  she  grows  older." 

Sybil  looked  towards  the  picture.  It  showed  the 
child  in  three-quarter  face.  "  But  I  want  her 
now,"  she  said.     "  She  looks  such  a  darling." 

Barnabas  suppressed  a  slight  movement  of  impa- 
tience. Sybil's  sole  thought  was  of  herself  and 
her  own  wants. 

"  Then  you  are  prepared,"  he  asked,  "  to  tell 
your  husband  everything?  To  lose  his  confidence 
and  his  love,  and  kill  his  happiness,  and,  quite 
possibly,  have. him  to  go  away  from  you,  merely 
making  you  an  allowance.  For  he  is  quite  as  likely 
—  and  I  believe  more  likely  —  to  do  that  than  ac- 
cept the  charge  of  the  child.     Which  do  you  want 


274  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

most  —  your  child  whom  you  have  never  seen  or 
your  husband  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  want  Luke,"  said  Sybil  quickly.  "At 
least,  I  think  so." 

Barnabas  felt  considerably  like  shaking  her.  He 
was  determined  that  if  he  could  prevent  it  she 
should  not  spoil  two  lives.  He  had  no  belief  in 
weak  and  tardy  confessions  that  advantage  no  one. 
He  made  an  appeal  to  her  better  self  —  if  it  ex- 
isted. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  have  the  strength  and  cour- 
age to  keep  silence.  Even  if  you  do  want  your 
child  now,  have  the  pluck  to  renounce  her  for  her 
sake  and  Luke's.  Remember,  that  payment  of 
some  kind  is  always  demanded  sooner  or  later  for 
any  debt  we  owe.     This  is  your  payment." 

Sybil  looked  silently  towards  Miss  Mason. 

"  He's  right,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  I  hadn't  seen 
things  quite  in  that  light.  Also,  I  was  afraid  of 
having  my  judgment  biassed  by  my  desire  to  keep 
the  child." 

Curiously  enough  throughout  the  conversation 
neither  Miss  Mason  nor  Barnabas  had  spoken  of 
Pippa  by  name.  Instinctively  they  both  felt  that 
to  do  so  would  be  to  suggest  an  intimacy  to  which 
Sybil  was  not  entitled. 

Sybil  looked  at  the  floor  for  a  few  moments 
without  speaking.     Then  she  raised  her  head. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I  will  not  tell  Luke. 
He  may  come  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kirby.     If  he  does 


Pippa's  Mother  275 

please  don't  tell  him  of  my  visit  here.  But  of 
course  you  won't.  And,"  she  went  on,  with  a  lit- 
tle pleading  note  in  her  voice,  "  please,  you  two, 
don't  despise  me  more  than  you  can  help.  Some 
people  seem  born  strong  and  not  afraid.  I've  al- 
ways been  a  coward.  I  think  perhaps  if  my  father 
and  mother  had  been  a  little  more  lenient  with  me 
when  I  was  a  child  it  would  have  been  different. 
But  I  was  timid,  and  dreaded  being  shut  up  in  the 
dark.  So  I  used  to  fib  to  get  out  of  punishment. 
And  after  a  time  I  thought  nothing  of  not  speaking 
the  truth  to  them.  But  I  suppose  you  can't  under- 
stand that." 

"  I  can  understand  very  well,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
She  had  known  the  parents. 

And  Barnabas  felt  a  sudden  pity  for  the  woman, 
who  in  spite  of  her  thirty-two  years  looked  little 
more  than  a  girl.  She  was  of  the  fragile  flower- 
like beauty  that  would  no  doubt  appeal  to  a  man 
of  the  strength  of  Kostolitz.  At  the  moment 
Barnabas  himself  would  have  protected  her  rather 
than  have  blamed  her. 

All  at  once  Sybil  spoke  timidly.  "  Where  is 
she  ? "  she  asked,  nodding  towards  the  picture. 
"  Could  I  see  her  for  a  moment  ?  " 

Miss  Mason  hesitated,  doubtful  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  proceeding.     "  She's  out  now,"  she  said. 

Sybil  gave  a  tiny  sigh.  "  Well,  perhaps  it's  bet- 
ter not,"  she  said.  "  I'd  have  promised  not  to  tell 
her.     Of  course,   I   don't   suppose  anyone  would 


276  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

trust  me  very  easily  who  knew  everything.  But 
truly  she  shall  never  know  about  me.  And  I'll 
never  tell  Luke  either.  I  see  that  you  are  right. 
I  owe  it  to  him  now  to  keep  silence.  I'll  try  to 
make  him  very  happy.  And  —  and  I'll  take  want- 
ing my  little  girl  as  a  punishment.  I  know  I  de- 
serve to  lose  her,  and  I  see  that  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  have  her  and  keep  Luke's  confidence.  I 
should  quite  spoil  his  life  and  his  belief  in  every 
one.  If  only  I  had  been  brave  long  ago  I  might 
have  had  my  little  girl  and  Luke  too.  But  I  will 
keep  my  word  now."  She  said  it  all  like  a  child 
promising  to  be  good. 

"  I  know  you  will,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason 
gently.  She  was  desperately  sorry  for  Sybil,  and 
terribly  grieved  at  the  whole  situation.  Yet  she 
too  saw  that  silence  was  now  the  only  possible 
thing  for  them  all.  And  in  the  end  it  would  be 
happier  for  Sybil  too.  Possibly  she  would  always 
now  wish  for  her  child  and  regret  her  loss.  But 
it  would  be  a  tender  regret,  though  sad.  And  she 
would  keep  Luke's  love. 

And  then  suddenly  from  the  courtyard  they  heard 
a  child's  voice.  Sybil  flushed  and  looked  at  Miss 
Mason  with  pleading  eyes. 

"  I'll  bring  her,"  said  Barnabas.  Wisdom  or 
not,  he  could  not  have  resisted  Sybil's  face. 

We've  found  a  flat,  really  and  truly,"  she  cried, 
as  she  met  Barnabas  in  the  garden.  "  It  is  beau- 
tiful, but  quite  beautiful." 


Pippa's  Mother  2.yj 

"More  beautiful  than  the  others?"  laughed 
Barnabas.  "  But  come  in  now  and  behave  pretty. 
Aunt  Olive  has  a  lady  to  tea  with  her." 

Pippa  came  into  the  room.  Her  extraordinary 
likeness  to  Kostolitz  made  Sybil  catch  her  breath. 
For  a  moment  she  did  not  trust  herself  to 
speak. 

"  Ah ! "  cried  Pippa,  with  quick  recognition. 
"  It  is  ze  lady  of  ze  car.  Did  you  give  her  ze 
ring?  " 

Sybil  held  out  her  hand.  "  Yes,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  I've  got  it.  I'm  glad  you  found  it  and  kept  it 
for  me."  She  held  the  child's  hand  tight.  Pippa 
looked  at  her  with  her  great  grey  eyes,  so  like  the 
dead  sculptor's.  Memories  rushed  over  Sybil. 
The  days  in  the  forest,  the  days  in  the  little  Welsh 
village  crowded  back  to  her  mind.  She  could  al- 
most hear  Kostolitz's  voice,  hear  his  gay  laugh, 
and  his  words  of  passionate  love.  Her  throat  con- 
tracted and  tears  filled  her  eyes.  Suddenly  she 
got  up. 

"  I'd  better  go  now,"  she  said.  Her  voice  shook 
a  little.  Then  an  impulse  moved  her.  She  held 
out  the  ring  to  Pippa.  "  Will  you  have  it  ?  "  she 
said.     "  I'd  like  you  to  keep  it" 

"  For  me  ?  "  said  Pippa,  her  face  crimson. 

"  May  she  ?  "  said  Sybil  to  Miss  Mason. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Mason. 

Sybil  looked  again  at  the  picture  of  the  child. 

"  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  ask,"  she  said,  "  but  it 


278  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

would  remind  me.  I  don't  want  to  forget  now. 
Not  that  I  ever  shall." 

"  I'll  send  it  to  you,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Bar- 
nabas won't  mind,  will  you,  Barnabas?  Just  a 
gift  from  an  old  friend,  you  know." 

Sybil's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Thank  you," 
she  said.  Then  she  bent  and  kissed  Pippa. 
"Good-bye,  little  one." 

Barnabas  went  to  the  door  with  her. 

"  I  couldn't  stay  any  longer,"  she  said.  "  Good- 
bye." 

And  she  went  away  in  the  sunshine,  past  the 
little  faun  in  the  next  garden,  and  so  out  of  the 
courtyard,  and  out  of  the  lives  she  had  momen- 
tarily entered. 

When  she  had  disappeared  Barnabas  looked  at 
the  little  faun. 

"  It  was  the  only  way,"  he  said.  And  his  heart 
was  sad  for  the  man  who  had  been  forgotten  by 
the  woman  he  had  loved.  And  he  wondered  if  he 
knew  everything  now.  If  he  did  he  would  prob- 
ably understand  so  fully  that  he  would  forgive 
fully.  And  then  Barnabas  went  back  into  the 
studio. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MICHAEL  MAKES  MUSIC 

DURING  August  Miss  Mason  took  Pippa  down 
to  a  little  seaside  place  in  Devonshire.  She 
chose  it  because  its  name  —  Hope  —  appealed  to 
her. 

Pippa  adored  it.  She  loved  the  quaint  cottages, 
and  the  beach  with  the  tarred  nets  spread  out  to 
dry,  and  the  kindly  fishermen  who  took  her  out  in 
their  boats,  and  who  talked  to  her  in  a  dialect  she 
could  hardly  understand.  But  she  understood  their 
kindness,  and  they  understood  her  smiles,  so  they 
got  on  very  well  together. 

Barnabas  came  down  for  a  fortnight,  and  Pippa 
met  him  at  the  station,  a  thin  slip  of  a  child,  her 
face  bronzed  with  the  sun  and  sea  air,  and  her 
eyes  holding  the  hint  of  mystery  he  had  seen  in 
the  eyes  of  Kostolitz. 

They  bathed  together,  they  caught  prawns  in 
seaweedy  pools  in  the  rocks,  they  sat  in  the 
shadow  of  the  cliffs  and  watched  the  sea-gulls  and 
the  white-sailed  boats  on  the  blue  water. 

And  during  these  days  Barnabas  found  in  Pippa 
something  that  he  had  not  found  before  —  not 
even  during  the  June  days  when  they  had  wandered 

279 


280  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

through  the  lanes  with  Pegasus.  He  found  in  her 
Woman  and  Companion.  She  ceased  to  be  merely 
Child.  He  saw  the  spirit  of  Kostolitz  in  her  mys- 
terious eyes.  She  showed  it  to  him  in  a  hundred 
ways  —  in  her  clear  joyous  love  of  Nature,  in  her 
fanciful  imaginings  and  delicate  thoughts,  in  her 
quick  insight  into  everything  that  was  beautiful. 
And  with  it  all  she  was  a  child,  too,  with  a  child- 
like simple  faith  and  trust  that  was  to  be  her  her- 
itage throughout  her  life.  And  because  there  was 
this  trait  also  in  Barnabas  they  found  in  each  other 
the  most  perfect  companionship. 

Miss  Mason  watched  them  together,  helped  them 
prawn,  and  was  radiantly  happy.  She  cared  not 
at  all  for  the  occasional  smiles  her  quaint  figure 
and  costume  provoked  from  other  visitors  to  the 
place.  And  because  Pippa  was  enjoying  herself 
enormously  she  remained  at  Hope  throughout  Sep- 
tember as  well. 

The  Duchessa  di  Corleone  too  had  left  London 
during  August.  She  wandered  from  place  to 
place  trying  to  find  forget  fulness  and  not  succeed- 
ing. 

In  September  she  returned  to  town.  She  never 
went  near  the  studios  now,  but  Michael  came  often 
to  see  her,  and  used  to  make  music  for  her.  In  it 
she  found  some  consolation.  And  Michael  loved 
to  come  to  her  house,  though  the  sight  of  her  always 
gave  him  pain. 

One  day  after  he  had  been  playing  to  her,  and 


Michael  Makes  Music  281 

they  were  having  tea  together,  he  suddenly  looked 
up  at  a  picture  of  St.  Michael  that  hung  in  her 
drawing-room. 

"  Queer,"  he  said,  with  a  little  twisted  smile, 
"  that  my  people  should  have  chosen  to  name  me 
after  the  warrior  angel."  And  he  glanced  from 
the  strength  of  the  pictured  figure  at  his  own 
shrunken  limbs.  His  voice  was  so  bitter  that  Sara 
could  find  no  reply. 

"  Just  a  moment's  carelessness  on  the  part  of  a 
nursemaid,"  went  on  Michael.  "  She  dropped  me 
when  I  was  a  baby.  You  see  the  result.  It  makes 
it  difficult  to  believe  in  an  over-ruling  Providence, 
doesn't  it?  My  guardian  angel  must  have  been 
peculiarly  inattentive  at  the  moment." 

"  I  think,"  said  Sara  slowly,  "  that  there  are 
times  in  the  life  of  every  one  when  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  have  faith.  Yet,  if  one  loses  it  one  loses  all 
happiness." 

"  I  lost  both  long  ago,"  said  Michael.  "  It's  an 
irony  of  fate  to  be  born  with  an  acute  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  and  to  see  one's  own  repulsive- 
ness." 

Sara  looked  up  quickly. 

"  But  you  are  not  repulsive,"  she  said. 

"  Bah !  "  said  Michael.  "  Look  at  me !  Women 
are  only  kind  to  me  out  of  pity." 

Sarah  looked  straight  at  him.  "  There  you  are 
quite  wrong,"  she  said  decisively.  "  I  don't  feel 
the  smallest  pity  for  you  in  the  sense  you  mean. 


282  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

Your  face  is  quite  beautiful,  and  your  music " 

she  stopped. 

"  But  my  body,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sara  calmly,  "  I  grant  you  that  it  is 
extremely  trying  for  you  to  be  lame,  and  you  must 
often  wish  to  be  strong  and  big.  But  you  need 
not  think  it  makes  the  smallest  difference  in  our 
affection  for  you."  She  again  looked  steadily  at 
him  as  she  spoke. 

Michael  looked  away  from  her.  "  But  no 
woman  could  love  me  —  they  would  shrink  from 
me,"  he  said.     And  his  face  flushed  hotly. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Sara.  "  There  again  you  are 
quite  wrong.  I  grant  that  there  is  a  certain  type 
of  woman  who  is  entirely  attracted  by  sinews  and 
muscles  in  a  man.  But  most  assuredly  there  are 
others." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Michael  spoke  again. 
His  voice  was  very  low. 

"You  —  you  could  never  care?"  he  said. 

Sara's  eyes  filled  with  quick  tears.  "  Not  in  the 
way  you  mean,"  she  said  gently ;  "  but  not  because 
of  the  morbid  reason  you  have  suggested.  I  —  I 
love  some  one  else." 

"Paul?"  he  asked. 

Sara  bowed  her  head. 

Michael  was  silent.  "  But  if  you  did  not,"  he 
asked  suddenly,  "  would  you  have  thought  it  horri- 
ble of  me  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you  —  not  quietly 
and  calmly,  but  —  but  as  a  man  loves  a  woman  ?  " 


Michael  Makes  Music  283 

"  I  should  have  been  honoured  to  hear  it  from 
you,"  said  Sara. 

Michael  looked  across  at  her  with  a  strange  smile. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  shall  not  tell  you 
how  —  though  you  know  it.  Nor  shall  I  ever  tell 
any  other  woman  what  I  have  told  you.  You  will 
still  let  me  come  and  see  you  ?  " 

"  You  must  come,"  said  Sara  quickly.  "  I 
should  miss  you  dreadfully  if  you  didn't.  During 
these  last  weeks  your  visits  have  been  my  greatest 
pleasure.  When  I  hear  the  front  door  bell  ring 
I  listen.  And  when  I  hear  the  pad  of  your  crutch 
on  the  stairs  I  am  happy,  and  I  say  to  myself,  '  It 
is  Michael.'  " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  his  name. 
For  a  few  moments  Michael  did  not  trust  himself 
to  speak.     When  he  did  his  voice  was  light. 

"  I  shall  hate  my  crutch  no  longer,"  he  said, 
"  since  its  sound  has  given  you  happiness.  Do 
you  know  you  have  quite  suddenly  brought  back 
faith  to  me.  I  thought  it  was  dead.  Now  I  will 
play  for  you  again." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  PEACE  OF  THE  RIVER 

AFTER  Michael  had  left,  Sara  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  stood  looking  out  at  the  trees  on  the 
Embankment.  The  heat  of  the  summer  had  al- 
ready caused  their  leaves  to  turn  yellow. 

Beyond  them  she  could  see  the  river.  It  always 
held  a  note  of  peace  for  her.  Rivers  and  lakes  had 
the  power  to  speak  to  her.  She  loved  their  calm 
quietude,  though  she  had  seen  lakes  lashed  to  fury 
by  the  wind.  But  it  was  a  different  kind  of  anger 
from  the  anger  of  the  sea.  The  cruelty  of  the  sea 
hurt  her  —  its  restlessness,  its  turmoil,  its  never- 
ceasing  demand  for  lives.  Even  when  it  was  quiet 
it  was  treacherous.  Its  smiling  surface  was  noth- 
ing but  a  lure,  for  it  held  terrible  secrets  in  its 
heart. 

But  the  quiet  of  the  river  always  soothed  her. 
She  knew  it  in  all  its  moods  —  under  grey  skies, 
and  under  blue  skies,  in  the  crimson  and  purple  of 
sunset,  in  the  amber  grey  and  rose  of  dawn.  She 
knew  it  at  the  full  flood  of  its  waters,  and  at  ebbing 
tide.  In  all  its  moods  she  loved  it,  and  she  loved 
her  house,  yet  she  felt  that  she  could  not  stay  there 
much  longer. 

284 


The  Peace  of  the  River  285 

With  the  end  of  October  she  would  go  away  to 
Italy  for  the  winter.  Everything  here  reminded 
her  of  Paul.  She  did  not  want  to  forget  him,  yet 
the  sight  of  the  streets  in  which  they  had  walked 
together,  the  hotels  at  which  they  had  dined,  the 
theatres  to  which  they  had  been,  only  served  to 
emphasize  her  present  loneliness. 

Christopher  was  the  only  person  who,  till  to-day, 
had  known  of  her  unhappiness.  Ever  since  he  first 
knew  her,  when  she  was  ten  and  he  was  two-and- 
twenty,  she  had  come  to  him  with  her  joys  and 
griefs.  There  was  a  curious  faculty  for  sympathy 
in  Christopher.  It  made  him  the  popular  barrister 
he  was,  especially  with  women.  It  was  easy  to  tell 
him  things.  Had  he  been  a  priest  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  much  sought  in  confession. 
He  had  heard  many  stories,  both  sordid  and  piti- 
ful. Somehow  he  seemed  always  able  to  separate 
the  sin  from  the  sinner.  One  knew  instinctively 
that  he  had  no  scorn  for  the  latter,  any  more  than 
a  doctor  scorns  a  patient  who  comes  to  him  with  a 
disease  to  be  cured.  He  had,  too,  been  instrumental 
in  preventing  several  divorces,  and  in  giving  men 
convicted  of  theft  a  second  chance  without  the 
stigma  of  prison  attaching  to  them.  And  curiously 
enough  he  had  never  been  disappointed  in  those 
for  whom  he  had  pleaded  for  leniency.  There  was 
nothing  weak  about  Christopher.  There  had  been 
certain  cases  he  had  refused  to  accept  —  cases  in 
which  he  knew  the  guilt  to  be  a  fact,  and  in  which 


286  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

justice  could  only  be  avoided  by  a  direct  wandering 
from  the  truth,  even  though  he  knew  that  by  one 
of  his  impassioned  speeches  he  could  most  probably 
have  saved  the  victim  from  the  law,  and  have  es- 
tablished a  great  reputation  for  himself.  In  spite 
of  his  sympathy,  he  took  a  strangely  impersonal 
view  of  things  in  general,  and  his  sympathy,  though 
very  real,  was  never  allowed  to  bias  his  judgment. 

He  agreed  fully  with  Paul's  decision  that  he  and 
Sara  should  not  meet,  and  he  offered  a  silent  sym- 
pathy which  Sara  found  very  comforting.  After 
she  had  once  told  him  about  the  parting  she  had 
not  again  spoken  directly  of  it.  She  could  not 
talk  of  it.  She  could  only  try  to  live  her  life  as 
best  she  might  in  the  hope  that  one  day  .  .  . 

But  that  day  seemed  very  far  off  and  dim. 

And  in  his  studio  Paul  was  working  with  a  grim, 
dogged  determination.  And  every  week  he  wrote 
cheerful  letters  to  his  mother,  in  one  of  which  he 
had  just  said  that  his  marriage  was  postponed  for 
a  time;  and  he  never  for  a  moment  let  her  guess 
the  trick  fate  had  played  him. 

And  so  September  passed,  and  it  drew  on  to- 
wards the  middle  of  October. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SOME   TWISTED   THREADS 

U  "DARN  ABAS,"  said  Miss  Mason  one  day— 
D  it  was  the  fourteenth  of  October — "  what's 
the  matter  with  Paul  ?  " 

She  was  in  Barnabas'  studio  when  she  put  the 
question. 

"  Ah,"  said  Barnabas,  "  you've  seen  it  too." 

"  One  must  be  blind  not  to  see  it,"  said  Miss 
Mason.  "  I  felt  something  was  wrong  before  I 
went  away,  and  since  I've  been  back  I've  been  sure 
of  it." 

For  a  moment  Barnabas  did  not  reply.  "  I  know 
part,"  he  said  after  a  minute,  "  and  the  rest  I  can 
guess.  You  know  he  has  lost  a  good  bit  of 
money?  " 

"  Humpt !  "  said  Miss  Mason.  "  I  didn't  know. 
So  that's  the  trouble." 

"Partly,"  said  Barnabas.  "I  think  the  other 
part  is  the  Duchessa." 

"You  mean ?"  said  Miss  Mason. 

"  Paul  was  in  love  with  her,"  said  Barnabas. 

Miss  Mason  looked  at  him.  Then  she  nodded 
her  head  two  or  three  times.  She  suddenly  real- 
ized that  the  Duchessa,   who  used   frequently  to 

287 


288  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

come  to  the  courtyard,  had  not  been  there  during 
the  last  three  weeks  of  July,  nor  during  this  first 
fortnight  in  October.  Of  August  and  September 
she  had,  of  course,  no  record. 

"  I  see,"  she  said. 

"  I  think,"  went  on  Barnabas,  "  that  if  this 
money  loss  had  not  intervened  they  would  have 
followed  the  example  of  Aurora  and  Alan." 

"  She  cared  for  him  then  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mason. 

"  I  have  never  seen  two  people  more  in  love  with 
each  other,"  said  Barnabas.  "  They  evidently  did 
not  wish,  at  the  moment,  to  make  the  fact  public. 
But  seeing  them  together,  as  I  occasionally  did,  one 
must  have  been  blind  not  to  have  realized  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  Then  she  is  un- 
happy, too  ?  " 

"  I  have  happened  to  meet  her  twice,"  said  Bar- 
nabas. "  She  acts  very  well.  But  the  spring  of 
life  has  gone." 

"  But  she  has  money,"  said  Miss  Mason. 
"Surely " 

"If  she  marries  again  she  loses  every  penny," 
said  Barnabas.  "  I  learned  that  quite  by  chance 
one  day  from  Charlton." 

Miss  Mason  made  a  curious  sound  with  her 
tongue.     It  can  only  be  described  as  clucking. 

"  The  world,"  she  said,  "  can  be  curiously  con- 
trary at  times.     I'm  very  glad  I  asked  you." 

Then  she  went  back  to  her  studio  and  sat  down 
for  a  long  time  in  her  big  arm-chair  to  think. 


Some  Twisted  Threads  289 

And  the  Three  Fates  watched  her.  For  when 
Miss  Mason  sat  in  her  chair  with  just  that  par- 
ticular expression  on  her  face,  it  meant  that  she 
was  not  over-pleased  with  their  weaving,  and  that 
she  wished  to  unravel  and  re-weave  their  latest 
pattern  to  a  fashion  more  according  to  their  mind. 
And  the  Three  Fates  looked  at  each  other,  and 
they  nodded  their  three  old  heads,  and  waited  with 
amusement  in  their  eyes  to  see  what  she  would  do. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  they  had  made  this  particular 
bit  of  muddle  in  their  weaving  on  purpose  that  she 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  putting  it  straight. 

But  it  was  a  bit  of  straightening  about  which 
Miss  Mason  felt  a  trifle  nervous.  Her  ringers 
itched  to  be  at  the  threads,  unravelling  and  un- 
twisting the  knots,  yet  somehow  she  felt  a  little 
frightened  to  begin. 

It  was  quite  three  hours  before  she  made  up  her 
mind.  Then  she  suddenly  crossed  to  her  writing- 
table  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Mr.  Davis  who  had 
rooms  in  Gray's  Inn.  In  the  letter  she  stated  that 
she  wished  to  see  him  at  eleven  o'clock  precisely 
the  following  morning  on  urgent  business. 

And  as  she  folded  and  sealed  the  letter  the 
Three  Fates  laughed.  For  Miss  Mason  had  put 
her  fingers  on  the  first  knot. 

"  It  is,"  said  Mr.  Davis,  "  a  most  unusual  pro- 
ceeding." 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  the  following  morning. 


290  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

He  had  been  talking  to  Miss  Mason  for  an  hour, 
or  rather  she  had  been  talking,  and  it  was  the 
third  time  that  he  had  made  the  above  statement. 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Miss  Mason  firmly,  "  it 
is  my  wish.  And  I  understand  that  I  have  abso- 
lute control  over  my  capital." 

"  Absolute,"  said  Mr.  Davis  regretfully,  looking 
at  her  with  a  kind  of  mild  protest  through  his 
spectacles. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  she  went  on,  "  have  the  deeds, 
or  whatever  you  call  them,  drawn  up  immediately. 
I  will  come  down  to  your  office  the  day  after  to- 
morrow to  sign  them.  I  shall  bring  them  away 
with  me,  and  post  them  to  you  the  moment  I  wish 
the  matter  put  in  full  train.  Is  everything  perfectly 
clear?" 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Mr.  Davis.  "  Of  course,  if 
there  had  been  trustees " 

"  But  there  aren't,  thank  goodness,"  said  Miss 
Mason.  "  Remember,  ten  o'clock  Friday  morning 
I'll  be  with  you." 

Mr.  Davis  found  himself  dismissed;  and  he  left 
the  studio  wondering  how  a  woman  who  eighteen 
months  ago  did  not  know  how  to  fill  up  a  cheque 
should  suddenly  have  become  so  remarkably  de- 
cided regarding  business  matters,  and  utterly  refuse 
to  listen  to  common-sense  statements  on  his  part. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  Miss  Mason  wrote  to 
Sara. 

"  My  dear  Duchessa,"  she  wrote,  "  will  you  do 


Some  Twisted  Threads  291 

an  old  woman  a  favour  and  come  to  tea  with  her 
on  Friday  next  at  four  o'clock.  I  want  to  see  you 
on  a  particular  matter.  If  you  are  engaged  on 
Friday  will  you  very  kindly  appoint  some  other 
hour  on  which  you  can  come  to  see  me. 
"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Olive  Mason." 

She  serjt  the  note  by  Sally,  telling  her  to  wait 
for  an  answer.  In  half  an  hour  Sally  returned 
with  it.  Miss  Mason  opened  it  with  fingers  a  little 
shaky  from  anxiety.     She  read  it  slowly. 

"  My  dear  Aunt  Olive. —  Thank  you  for  your  let- 
ter.    I  will  be  with  you  on  Friday  next  at  four 
o'clock.     My  love  to  you  and  Pippa.     I  hope  you 
both  enjoyed  your  holiday  in  Devonshire. 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Sara  di  Corleone." 

It  had  cost  Sara  something  to  write  that  letter. 
It  would  bring  back  memories  of  joy  and  pain  for 
her  again  to  enter  the  courtyard. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

KNOTS  UNTIED 

ON  Friday  afternoon  at  half-past  two  Barnabas 
took  Pippa  to  feed  the  monkeys  and  other 
animals  at  the  Zoological  Gardens.  It  was  by 
Miss  Mason's  special  request. 

During  the  time  that  elapsed  between  their  de- 
parture and  four  o'clock  Miss  Mason  was  distinctly 
restless.  She  began  to  sew  at  some  fine  white 
cambric  into  which  she  was  putting  her  most  beau- 
tiful stitches.  When  she  had  returned  from  Hope, 
Bridget  had  told  her  of  a  Secret  that  was  to  arrive 
in  the  spring  —  a  secret  which  if  it  was  a  boy  was 
to  be  called  Oliver,  but  Bridget  hoped  it  would  be 
Olive.     She  and  Jasper  were  beamingly  happy. 

Miss  Mason  put  in  a  few  stitches,  but  she  found 
it  impossible  to  sit  still.  She  dropped  the  work 
into  a  basket,  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Then  she  would  sud- 
denly sit  down  and  begin  to  sew  again. 

"  I'm  an  old  fool,"  she  said.  "  I  can  no  more 
help  interfering  than  I  can  help  breathing,  and  yet 
I'm  as  nervous  as  a  cat."  And  she  began  to  watch 
the  clock  anxiously. 

292 


Knots  Untied  293 

It  had  just  chimed  the  hour  in  its  silvery  tone 
when  Sally  opened  the  door. 

"  The  Duchessa  di  Corleone,"  she  said.  She  had 
learnt  the  name  by  now. 

Sara  came  into  the  room.  She  was  in  a  dark 
blue  dress,  and  because  the  day  was  keen,  though 
bright,  she  was  wrapped  in  dark  sable  furs. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason,  "  I  am  quite  de- 
lighted to  see  you.     Sally,  bring  tea." 

Sara  sat  down  and  loosened  her  furs.  Miss  Ma- 
son looked  at  her.  Her  face  was  paler  than  even 
its  usual  worry  warranted.  It  had  lost  the  under- 
glow  of  warmth,  and  her  eyes  looked  dark  and  sad. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  time  in  Devonshire  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Delightful,"  said  Miss  Mason.  "  A  few  peo- 
ple grinned  fatuously  when  they  saw  my  old  figure 
skipping  over  the  rocks.  But  I  said  to  myself, 
1  The  Duchessa  wouldn't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,' 
and  so  I  didn't  care." 

Sara  smiled.  "  You  still  remember  our  conver- 
sation long  ago?  " 

"  I've  never  forgotten  it,"  said  Miss  Mason  em- 
phatically. "  I  fancy  if  I  had  not  seen  you  that 
evening  I  should  have  given  up  all  my  dreams  and 
have  gone  back  to  the  old  house  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  And  what  a  lot  I  should  have  missed  if  I 
had." 

"  And  what  a  lot  a  great  many  people  would 
have  missed,"  said  Sara.     "  You've  woven  your- 


294  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

self  into  a  good  many  lives.  Why,  dozens  of  ba- 
bies would  have  been  minus  white  woolly  jackets, 
while  several  bigger  babies  would  have  lost  a  good 
deal  of  happiness." 

"  Nice  of  you  to  say  so,"  said  Miss  Mason.  And 
she  began  to  pour  out  tea. 

For  the  next  twenty  minutes  they  talked  of  little 
things  —  the  visit  to  Devonshire,  the  donkey-tour, 
the  flat  Aurora  and  Alan  had  taken,  and  Pippa  at 
present  feeding  the  animals  at  the  Zoo.  Sara 
talked  lightly  and  even  gaily.  As  Barnabas  had 
said,  she  was  a  good  actress.  It  was  not  till  the 
meal  was  finished,  then  Miss  Mason  spoke  on  the 
subject  of  her  heart. 

"  My  dear,"  she  then  said  suddenly,  "  what  is 
the  matter?" 

Sara  flushed.  "  I  can't  talk  about  it,"  she  said. 
She  made  no  attempt  at  denial. 

"  I  don't  really  want  you  to  tell  me,"  said  Miss 
Mason,  "  because  I  know.  But  I  think  I  can  find 
a  way  out  of  the  difficulty." 

Sara  gave  a  little  sad  laugh.  "If  you  can  you 
are  clever.  I've  thought  and  thought,  and  can  see 
none." 

Miss  Mason  coughed.  "  It's  all  perfectly  sim- 
ple, really,"  she  said,  "  only  I  don't  quite  know  how 
to  begin  to  tell  you.  It  seems  to  me  that  money  is 
the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  to  talk  about." 
She  took  two  envelopes   from  the  table.     "  Will 


Knots  Untied  295 

you,  my  dear,  read  the  contents  of  those.  It  seems 
to  me  the  simplest  way." 

Sara  took  the  envelopes  —  long  ones  —  and 
drew  out  the  parchment  contents.  She  read 
slowly.  At  first  she  could  hardly  grasp  their  mean- 
ing, it  had  been  so  unexpectedly  presented  to  her. 

At  last  she  looked  up.     Her  face  was  quivering. 

"But  —  but  —  I  simply  couldn't " 

"  But,  my  dear,  why  not  ?  "  said  Miss  Mason. 
"  Will  you  look  at  the  whole  thing  reasonably.  If 
I  chose  to  bequeath  certain  sums  of  money  to  you 
and  Paul  at  my  death  I  presume  you  would  not 
feel  it  encumbent  on  you  to  refuse  them.  Why 
shouldn't  you  accept  them  now  ?  " 

"  But "     began      Sara     again.     And     she 

stopped,  looking  from  the  documents  she  held  to 
Miss  Mason. 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Mason,  "  that  people  often 
feel  a  kind  of  pride  about  accepting  money,  though 
why  on  earth  they  should  calmly  take  it  from  dead 
people  and  refuse  to  accept  it  from  living  ones,  I 
can't  imagine.  Of  course  their  argument  might 
be  that  dead  people  can't  use  it  themselves.  That 
would  be  true.  But  then  this  special  living  person 
can't  use  all  hers.  Let  me  just  put  things  clearly 
to  you.  I  have  a  capital  that  brings  me  in  fifteen 
thousand  a  year.  Five  thousand  a  year  I  am  de- 
voting to  a  certain  scheme  in  which  Barnabas  is 
helping  me.     I  wish  to  make  over  sufficient  capital 


296  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

to  you  and  Paul  to  bring  you  in  two  thousand  five 
hundred  a  year  each.  That  will  leave  me  with  five 
thousand  a  year  for  my  own  use.  My  dear,  I 
don't  even  spend  that." 

"  But  charities "  began  Sara  vaguely. 

"  Pooh!  "  said  Miss  Mason.  "  I'm  sick  of  them. 
If  you'd  written  as  many  charitable  letters  as  I 
have  you'd  have  had  enough  of  charities.  I  wrote 
hundreds  for  Miss  Stanhope.  She  always  filled  in 
the  amount  she  gave  herself.  I  never  knew  what 
it  was.  But  I  can  give  to  all  the  charities  I  want 
out  of  five  thousand.  Now,  my  dear,  will  you 
agree.  Will  you  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  ac- 
ceptance and  allow  me  a  few  more  years  on  this 
extremely  pleasant  planet  in  which  I  can  see  your 
happiness,  instead  of  waiting  till  I'm  dead  and  com- 
ing then  to  drop  a  few  grateful  tears  and  white 
flowers  on  my  grave.  I'd  infinitely  prefer  the 
former  I  assure  you." 

Sara  gave  a  little  half-laughing  sob.  "  I  accept 
with  all  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  know 
how  ever  I  am  to  thank  you." 

Miss  Mason  grunted.  "  Now  there's  another 
thing,"  she  said,  "  please  don't  try.  Do  think  if 
you  can  that  the  money  just  happened  into  the  bank 
without  any  human  agency.  If  you're  going  to 
keep  an  eternal  feeling  of  gratitude  before  your 
mind  it  will  spoil  everything.  I  want  to  be  able  to 
quarrel  with  you  and  Paul  and  scold  you  as  much 
as  I  like,  and  if  I  felt  that  gratitude  was  preventing 


Knots  Untied  297 

you  from  answering  me  back  it  would  destroy  my 
whole  pleasure  in  the  proceeding.  Besides,  my 
dear,  if  there  is  any  debt  owing  it  is  I  who  owe  it. 
I've  never  forgotten  the  hope  you  gave  me  the  first 
evening  we  met." 

Sara  stretched  out  her  hands  with  a  little  laugh 
of  pure  happiness.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
laughed  like  that  for  three  months. 

"  And  I  tried  to  sermonize  a  little,"  she  cried. 
"  And  then  we  got  on  to  fairy-tales,  and  I  was 
happier.  Oh,  isn't  life  a  fairy-tale!  And  if  we 
told  all  the  dull,  prosaic  people  of  the  truly  delight- 
ful and  unexpected  things  that  happen  wouldn't 
they  say  that  it  was  all  make-up,  and  far-fetched, 
and  things  like  that.  When  it  is  just  that  they  are 
too  stupid  to  see  the  happenings,  and  too  heavy  and 
dull  to  look  over  the  wall  in  which  they  have  en- 
closed themselves.  I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  I 
am.  And  will  you  think  me  a  pig  if  I  run  away 
for  a  little  while  and  tell  Paul?  " 

She  got  up  from  her  chair,  radiant,  vital,  as  she 
had  been  on  the  day  she  had  first  entered  the  studio. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Mason,  "  if  you  hadn't 
said  you  were  going  I  should  have  sent  you." 

Sara  held  out  both  her  hands.  "  It  seems,"  she 
said,  "  as  if  I  were  taking  it  too  quietly,  and  as  if  I 
ought  to  have  protested  more.  But  after  every- 
thing you  said  I  really  couldn't.  It  was  all  so  ab- 
solutely true.  And  we'd  both  so  much  rather  have 
you  here  seeing  our  happiness  in  your  wonderful 


298  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

legacy,  than  that  we  should  go  to  a  grave  to  thank 
you,  and  lay  that  white  flower  tenderly  o'n  the 
grass." 

Miss  Mason  gave  a  gruff  laugh.  "  You  can't 
conceive,"  she  said,  "  what  pleasure  you've  given 
me."  Then  quite  suddenly  she  took  Sara  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  she  said  as  she  released  her, 
"  do,  for  goodness'  sake,  go  and  make  that  poor 
Paul  happy." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  TUNE  OF  LOVE 

PAUL  had  gone  on  bravely  with  his  life.  He 
knew  that  when  Sara  had  gone  out  of  his  studio 
into  the  summer  night  she  had  taken  something 
away  with  her,  the  something  that  was  the  best 
part  of  himself.  But  with  what  remained  to  him 
he  had  set  himself  to  face  the  lonely  months  ahead 
of  him.  Each  morning  as  he  woke  he  told  himself 
that  he  would  work  for  her.  It  was  the  only  thing 
that  made  work  possible  to  him. 

His  joy  in  art  had  been  sufficient  for  him  until 
he  met  her.  Her  coming  had  increased  it  ten- 
thousandfold,  as  it  had  increased  his  whole  joy  in 
life  and  in  beauty,  giving  it  a  meaning  he  had 
never  before  realized.  And  when  she  went  she  had 
taken  it  away,  leaving  him  with  nothing  but  the 
husk. 

In  spite  of  his  courage,  loneliness  at  times  seemed 
as  if  it  must  overwhelm  him,  for  now  it  was  unlike 
his  former  loneliness.  Before,  he  had  not  known 
what  it  was  to  have  the  perfect  companionship  of 
a  woman.  Now  he  had  known  it  and  lost  it.  And 
the  years  before  him  stretched  very  grey.  He 
tried  to  see  a  gleam  of  gold  in  the  future,  but  it 

299 


300  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

was  too  far  off  for  him  to  perceive  it  by  sight;  he 
could  only  tell  himself  in  faith  that  one  day  it 
would  dawn  through  the  greyness.  But  however 
strong  the  spirit  may  be  to  have  faith,  the  flesh 
after  all  is  human  and  weak,  and  his  loneliness 
pressed  hard  upon  him.  During  the  last  weeks, 
too,  he  had  had  only  one  commission  —  an  unin- 
teresting one,  which  he  had  nevertheless  accepted. 
He  would  now,  as  he  had  said,  have  painted  anyone 
however  commonplace.  But  the  work  had  not 
taken  him  in  any  degree  out  of  himself. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  of  October 
he  was  sitting  alone  in  his  studio.  It  had  been  a 
bad  day  for  him  —  one  of  the  days  that  come  to  all 
artists  when  hand  and  brain  alike  refuse  to  work, 
when  inspiration  is  lacking,  and  it  seems  as  if  her 
light  had  departed  for  ever. 

He  looked  round  the  room.  There  was  rather 
a  neglected  appearance  about  it.  He  had  given  up 
his  man  as  an  extravagance  he  could  not  possibly 
afford,  and  he  was  on  the  look-out  for  a  tenant  for 
his  studio,  meaning  to  move  into  something  much 
smaller.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  neglected  look  of  the 
studio,  Paul  himself  was  as  well  groomed  as  ever. 
Personal  cleanliness  was  an  ingrained  characteris- 
tic of  him.  It  belonged  to  him  as  much  as  it  be- 
longed to  the  French  aristocrats  who  manicured 
their  nails  while  waiting  in  the  Bastille  for  the 
tumbrils  that  would  take  them  to  the  scaffold  and 
the  embrace  of  the  guillotine. 


The  Tune  of  Love  301 

After  a  time  he  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  taking 
the  kettle  from  the  stove,  he  made  some  tea.  As 
he  did  so  he  thought  of  the  many  times  Sara  had 
had  tea  with  him  since  the  day  in  Battersea  Park. 

Everything  he  did  or  thought  reminded  him  of 
her.  The  tiniest  and  most  trivial  details  recalled 
her  —  even  a  thing  as  insignificant  as  the  crack  in 
the  table.  He  remembered  seeing  her  run  her  fin- 
ger along  it  one  day  when  she  had  been  sitting  in 
the  chair  opposite  to  him,  which  chair  was  now 
empty.  The  tea-cups  reminded  him.  He  had 
bought  them  specially  for  her.  Before  that  he  had 
only  possessed  two  cracked  ones  and  a  tumbler. 
Even  one  of  the  cracked  ones  was  precious,  because 
from  it  she  had  drunk  a  cup  of  coffee  the  day 
Pippa  had  lunched  with  him  and  he  had  decided 
to  repaint  her  dress. 

"  My  God !  "  said  Paul  to  himself,  "  joy  was  so 
near  me,  and  now  I  must  pass,  at  the  best,  years  of 
my  life  alone." 

He  looked  across  at  the  vases  on  the  book-shelf. 
They  had  never  held  flowers  since  the  day  thirteen 
weeks  ago  when  they  had  been  full  of  crimson 
roses.  They  and  the  blue  vase  on  the  mantelpiece, 
to  the  colour  of  which  Pippa  had  likened  Sara, 
were  covered  with  dust.  Paul  felt  suddenly  as  if, 
in  spite  of  his  efforts,  dust  were  settling  on  his 
heart. 

And  then  all  at  once  he  heard  a  slight  sound. 
It  was  a  woman's   step  in  the  courtyard.     Paul 


302  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

caught  hold  of  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  gripped  it 
hard.     His  face  had  gone  quite  white. 

The  door  opened. 

"  Paul,"  said  a  voice. 

The  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms  and  he 
was  sobbing  like  a  child. 

"  Don't,  dear  heart,  don't,"  said  Sara,  her  voice 
shaking. 

He  put  her  in  a  chair  and  sat  down  by  the  table. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  come,"  he  said  brokenly. 

She  went  over  to  him  and  knelt  beside  him. 

"  But,  dearest,  listen,"  she  said,  taking  both  his 
hands,  "  I  have  come  to  tell  you  of  joy." 

Paul  stared  at  her  half  bewildered.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Listen,"  she  said.  "  It's  all  so  wonderful  I 
can  hardly  believe  it  myself.  But  it's  all  true  — 
true  —  true !  " 

"Tell  me,  quickly,"  said  Paul,  putting  his  arms 
round  her. 

And  as  many  weeks  ago  he  had  had  to  tell  her 
bad  news,  so  she  now  told  him  news  of  joy.  She 
told  him  everything,  all  Miss  Mason's  quaint  and 
excellent  reasons  for  their  acceptance  of  this  hap- 
piness with  no  thought  of  false  pride  to  intervene. 

"You  will  accept,  Paul?"  said  Sara,  as  she  fin- 
ished. 

Again  the  man's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "  Be- 
loved, I  must.  My  love  for  you  would  sweep  away 
all  pride.     But  I  think  with  a  gift  offered  in  that 


The  Tune  of  Love  303 

way  one  need  have  none.  My  God,  it's  won- 
derful !  " 

And  so  she  still  knelt  beside  him,  and  he  held  her 
in  a  kind  of  dumb  ecstasy,  as  if  he  feared  to  move 
and  find  it  was  only  a  dream.  And  the  music  of 
the  Heart  which  had  long  held  such  a  throb  of 
pain  now  rose  loud  and  glorious,  filling  the  whole 
studio. 

"  Beloved,"  said  Paul  at  last,  "  let  us  go  to- 
gether and  find  Aunt  Olive." 

So  they  went  out  into  the  purple  dusk,  in  which 
a  light  wind  was  scattering  the  last  few  golden 
leaves  from  the  trees,  letting  them  float  gently  to 
the  courtyard. 

And  the  little  faun  saw  them  coming,  and  the 
tune  he  played  to  welcome  them  was  the  sweetest, 
purest  Tune  of  Love. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

A   WEDDING  DAY 

AND  so  the  knots  the  Fates  had  twisted  were 
unravelled,  and  the  threads  re-woven  into  the 
beautiful  pattern  of  joy  and  gladness,  love  and 
friendship. 

One  day  Paul  took  Sara  down  to  Hampshire  to 
see  his  mother,  a  white-haired  old  lady  with  a  wrin- 
kled face  and  a  peaceful  mouth,  and  eyes  like  Paul's. 
She  took  Sara  at  once  to  her  heart. 

"Dearie,"  she  said,  "my  boy  has  had  a  lonely 
life,  and  I  thank  God  he  has  found  a  woman  like 
you  to  fill  it." 

And  Sara  in  her  turn  loved  the  old  lady,  not 
only  for  Paul's  sake,  but  for  her  own.  And  she 
loved  the  little  cottage  where  she  lived,  and  she 
loved  the  old-fashioned  garden  with  its  box-edged 
paths,  and  flower-beds  in  which  a  few  late  autumn 
flowers  still  lingered.  The  rooms  in  the  cottage 
were  small,  but  all  as  dainty  and  clean  as  porce- 
lain, and  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  lavender  and 
pot-pourri.  She  showed  Sara  the  bedrooms  with 
their  old  chintz  curtains  before  the  casement  win- 
dows, and  the  frilly  dressing-tables,  and  white- 
valanced   beds.     They   had   each   the   effect   of   a 

3<H 


A  Wedding  Day  305 

Dresden  china  Shepherdess  —  the  tiniest  bit  stiff, 
but  extraordinarily  dainty.  She  showed  her  her 
store  cupboard  with  its  pots  of  jam,  marmalade, 
and  pickles,  and  she  promised  her  a  recipe  for 
curing  hams  and  another  for  making  oat- 
cake. 

And  Sara  told  her  how  to  make  spaghetti,  and 
told  her  it  was  the  first  dish  she  had  ever  cooked 
for  Paul.  And  in  the  evening  when  they  went 
away  she  took  with  her  a  great  bunch  of  Michael- 
mas daisies.  And  Mrs.  Treherne  kissed  her  and 
blessed  her,  for  she  knew  that  the  next  day  she 
was  to  be  Paul's  wife. 

The  reception  was  to  be  held  in  Miss  Mason's 
studio  by  special  request  from  Paul  and  Sara. 
Sara  felt  that  already  the  house  on  the  Embank- 
ment was  hers  no  longer. 

There  were  to  be  few  guests  at  the  wedding  — 
only  the  other  artists  of  the  courtyard,  Bridget, 
Christopher,  Andrew,  and  the  two  executors  of 
Giuseppe's  will,  who  would  bring  with  them  the 
important  letter  whose  secret  would  be  at  last  dis- 
closed. The  journey  and  the  fatigue  of  the  cere- 
mony, however  quiet,  would  have  been  too  much 
for  Mrs.  Treherne.  Sara's  own  father  and  mother 
had  been  dead  several  years.  Christopher  was  to 
give  away  the  bride,  and  Barnabas  was  to  be  best 
man. 

And  so  the  day  dawned,  a  still,  November  day 


306  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

of  soft  mists  and  a  pale  blue  sky  —  a  tender  day- 
full  of  peace  and  happiness. 

Christopher  went  to  the  house  on  the  Embank- 
ment to  fetch  Sara.  She  was  waiting  in  the  draw- 
ing-room for  him,  in  a  sapphire  blue  dress,  a  large 
black  hat,  and  her  soft  sable7  furs. 

"  Ready  ?  "  said  Christopher,  smiling.  And  they 
went  down  the  stairs  together. 

Pietro  was  in  the  hall.  His  face  was  radiant 
with  pleasure.  Paul  and  Sara  had  arranged  to 
keep  him  in  their  service. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Sara.  "  We'll  let  you  know 
when  we  return  to  London.  You  will  of  course 
hand  over  the  keys  of  the  house  to  the  executors 
when  they  ask  for  them." 

"  Yes,  Your  Grace.  Good  fortune  and  happi- 
ness to  your  Grace." 

"  Thank  you,  Pietro,"  said  Sara.  And  then  she 
passed  through  the  door  he  held  open  for  her,  and 
went  down  the  steps  to  the  taxi,  Christopher  fol- 
lowing. 

"  Christopher,"  said  Sara  a  moment  or  two  after 
they  had  started,  "  you've  been  a  very  good  friend 
to  me,  and  I'd  like  to  thank  you." 

"  No  occasion  to  do  so,"  said  Christopher  im- 
perturbably.  "  The  friendship  has  been  mutual, 
and  I  hope  will  still  continue." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Sara.  "  That  was  one  thing 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  My  love  for  Paul  doesn't 
make  the  least  difference  in  my  friendship  for  you. 


A  Wedding  Day  307 

You  will  be  exactly  the  same  to  me,  as  I  shall  be, 
I  hope,  to  you." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Christopher,  holding  out  his 
hand  with  a  smile.  But  he  knew  that  it  never 
would  be  quite  the  same  again.  Her  marriage  with 
Guiseppe  had  made  no  difference,  her  marriage 
with  Paul  would.  And  with  the  knowledge  Chris- 
topher had  suddenly  realized  what  he  was  losing. 
He  was  like  a  man  who  had  had  a  jewel  in  a  box, 
looking  at  it  always  in  one  position,  and  it  was  not 
till  he  took  it  in  his  hand  to  give  it  to  another  that 
it  suddenly  flashed  upon  him  in  a  new  light,  and 
he  saw  colours  and  depths  in  it  hitherto  unper- 
ceived,  and  a  longing  to  keep  it  took  possession  of 
him.  But  the  deed  was  already  virtually  signed 
and  witnessed,  the  power  to  keep  it  lost,  and  so  he 
hid  what  he  was  feeling,  and  his  manner  towards 
her  held  nothing  but  his  old  courtliness,  his  old 
friendship.  The  pain  the  new  knowledge  had 
brought  him  must  be  his  alone. 

And  as  the  taxi  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  church 
he  helped  Sara  to  alight,  and  gave  her  his  arm  to 
lead  her  up  the  steps,  and  up  the  aisle  to  the  other 
man  who  was  waiting  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A  GIFT  FROM  THE  DEAD 

SIGNOR  BERNARDO  CIGNOLESI  took  his 
watch  from  his  pocket  and  looked  at  Signor 
Manfredi  Guido. 

"  It  is,  I  think,  the  exact  hour,"  he  said. 

They  were  small  and  dapper  Italians,  these  two, 
who  had  been  appointed  by  the  late  Duca  di  Cor- 
leone  as  the  executors  of  his  will  and  the  keepers 
of  the  letter. 

The  whole  party  was  assembled  in  Miss  Mason's 
studio.  The  wedding  was  over.  Paul  and  Sara 
had  plighted  their  troth.  The  blessing  upon  them 
had  been  pronounced.  And  when  the  last  words 
of  it  had  died  away  the  church  had  been  suddenly 
filled  with  music,  the  notes  of  a  violin  joyous  and 
sweet,  a  wedding  song  for  the  two,  a  song  that  had 
never  before  been  played. 

It  was  Michael's  tribute  to  them  both.  The 
organist  alone  had  been  taken  into  the  secret,  and 
the  man,  who  was  a  very  true  musician,  listened  to 
the  song  with  his  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  It  is  Michael,"  Sara  had  whispered.  And  no 
one  had  moved  till  the  music  had  ceased. 

But  now  they  were  all  in  the  studio,  eating  wed- 
3c8 


A  Gift  from  the  Dead  309 

ding  cake  and  drinking  champagne,  which  Pippa 
had  never  tasted  before  and  which  made  her  gasp. 
She  was  wearing  a  little  pendant  Paul  had  given 
her.  It  was  gold  and  shaped  like  a  tulip,  and  it 
held  in  its  chalice  a  blue  sapphire. 

And  it  was  exactly  an  hour  from  the  time  the 
blessing  had  been  pronounced  that  Signor  Bernardo 
Cignolesi  said  to  Signor  Manfredi  Guido: 

"  I  think  it  is  the  exact  hour." 

And  Signor  Manfredi  Guido  took  a  sealed  en- 
velope from  his  pocket,  and  holding  it  in  his  hand 
the  two  crossed  together  to  Sara,  who  was  standing 
by  Paul,  her  radiance  and  magnetism  filling  the 
whole  place. 

"Allow  us,"  said  Signor  Guido,  speaking  for 
himself  and  his  co-executor,  "  to  give  into  your 
possession  the  letter  addressed  to  you  by  the  late 
Duca  di  Corleone.  And  now  permit  me  to  kiss 
your  hand  and  wish  you  all  happiness,  thanking 
you  at  the  same  time  for  your  hospitality."  He 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  Signor  Cignolesi 
followed  his  example.  Then  bowing  and  smiling 
the  two  dapper  little  men  returned  to  their  glasses 
of  champagne. 

Sara  broke  the  seal  of  the  envelope  and  drew  out 
the  paper  it  contained.  It  was  a  letter  in  the  late 
Duca's  handwriting,  and  addressed  to  herself. 

She  crossed  slowly  to  Miss  Mason's  large  oak 
chair  and  sat  down  while  she  read  it. 

"  My  dear,"  the  letter  began,  "  if  ever  you  read 


310  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

this  letter  it  will  be  on  the  day  that  you  have  given 
yourself  into  the  keeping  of  the  man  you  love. 
Therefore,  will  you  permit  me,  from  the  regions  of 
the  peaceful  dead,  to  offer  to  you  my  felicitations? 

"  It  is  possible  that  since  my  death  there  have 
been  moments  when  you  have  thought  of  me,  if 
not  with  anger,  at  least  with  vexation.  I  knew  I 
ran  the  risk  of  incurring  this  sentiment  on  your 
part  when  I  drew  up  my  will. 

"  May  I  now  give  you  my  reasons  and  my  ex- 
cuse for  my  action?     I  will  be  as  brief  as  possible: 

"  When  you  married  me,  my  dear,  you  were  able 
to  bring  me  a  certain  quiet  affection,  a  very  true 
courtliness,  and  an  entire  faithfulness.  Love  had 
not  entered  your  life.  You  did  not,  then,  know  its 
meaning.  I  was  not  the  man  to  teach  you.  I 
knew  it,  and  yet  I  was  selfish  enough  to  take  you. 
My  excuse  is  simply  that  I  loved  you.  You  gave 
me  what  you  had  then  to  give,  and  it  made  me 
happy.  If  I  longed  for  more  I  knew  it  was  not 
withheld,  but  simply,  at  the  time,  non-existent. 

"  I  realized,  however,  what  one  day  you  would 
have  it  in  your  power  to  give.  And  knowing  that, 
I  determined  that  the  best  should  come  to  you  and 
be  asked  of  you.  Hence  my  will.  Total  surren- 
der of  all  worldly  possessions  for  love.  Love  seek- 
ing you  for  your  sake  alone.  My  dear,  was  I 
wrong?  I  may  have  been.  I  leave  it  now  for  you 
to  judge  me.  I  wanted  you,  because  I  loved  you, 
to  have  the  gift  of  love  in  your  life. 


A  Gift  from  the  Dead  3" 

"  And  now  that  you  have  it  I,  from  the  quiet 
regions  to  which  I  shall  have  attained,  send  my 
offering  to  you  and  the  man  of  your  choice. 
Signor  Cignolesi  will  give  you  another  packet.  In 
it  you  will  find  a  deed  leaving  you  the  whole  and 
sole  possessor  of  the  Casa  di  Corleone  on  the  banks 
of  Lake  Como. 

"  You  loved  it,  and  I  loved  to  see  you  there.  If 
the  spirits  of  the  departed  are  allowed  to  return  to 
earth,  mine  will  come  there  to  see  you  in  your  hap- 
piness. And  remember,  my  dear,  that  in  it  I  shall 
rejoice,  for  I  believe  that  the  only  thing  that  could 
mar  the  peace  to  which,  please  God,  I  shall  attain, 
would  be  your  sorrow. 

"Therefore,  my  dear,  live  joyously  in  the  Casa 
di  Corleone.  And  when  on  sunny  days  you  sit 
in  the  shadow  of  the  orange  trees,  and  your  chil- 
dren come  running  to  you  across  the  courtyard, 
God  grant  that  my  spirit  may  be  there  to  see 
it. 

"  And  may  His  Blessing  be  upon  you ;  and  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  all  the  Saints  have  you  in  their 
keeping, 

"  Giuseppe  di  Corleone." 

Sara  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were  misty.  She 
signed  to  Paul  to  come  to  her. 

'"  Read  it,"  she  said.  "  Giuseppe  was  a  gener- 
ous man,  and  a  very  true  courtier." 

And  when   Paul  had  read  it  he  kissed   Sara's 


312  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

hand.  Then  he  came  back  to  the  table  and  every- 
one saw  that  he  had  something  to  say. 

"  My  wife,"  he  said  simply,  "  has  just  received 
a  gift  from  one  who  we  know  is  at  peace.  It  is 
the  gift  of  a  home  she  loves  —  the  Casa  di  Corleone. 
And  the  offering  comes  from  the  Duca  di  Cor- 
leone." 

He  bowed  his  head  gravely,  as  did  all  the  other 
occupants  of  the  studio,  while  Sara,  Pippa,  Barna- 
bas, and  the  two  dapper  little  Italians,  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross.  And  so  they  all  for  a  moment  paid 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  true  and  generous  man. 

Then,  of  course,  came  a  babel  of  congratulations, 
and  Paul  was  called  upon  for  a  speech. 

"  Speeches,"  said  Paul  smiling,  "  are  not  very 
much  in  my  line.  My  wife  and  I  thank  you  all  very 
much  for  being  here  to-day,  and  we  know  that 
throughout  our  lives  we  can  count  on  the  true  friend- 
ship of  all  present.  There  is  one  toast,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  would  like  to  propose.  It  is  to  one 
who  has  been,  and  is,  the  best  friend  of  many  of 
us.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  let  us  drink  to  Aunt 
Olive  in  Bohemia." 

And  everybody  got  to  their  feet,  and  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  applause,  and  a  good  deal  of  laughter, 
but  the  eyes  of  some  of  them  were  a  little  dim, 
as  were  the  eyes  of  the  old  lady  who  sat  there  smil- 
ing, and  thanking  God  in  her  heart  for  His  wonder- 
ful gifts  of  Love  and  Happiness. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE    MUSIC   OF   TWO    COURTYARDS 

AND  so  it  was  that  Paul  and  Sara  did  not  spend 
their  honeymoon  in  Paris  as  they  had  at  first 
intended,  but  travelled  direct  through  without  stop- 
ping to  the  Casa  di  Corleone  on  the  banks  of  Lake 
Como. 

It  was  in  the  purple  and  crimson  of  a  sunset  that 
Paul  first  saw  the  courtyard,  and  the  golden 
oranges  among  their  dark  green  leaves,  and  the 
marble  fauns  and  nymphs,  and  heard  the  plashing 
of  the  fountain.  The  crimson  light  from  the  sky 
was  touching  the  white  marble  of  the  figures,  trans- 
forming them  momentarily  to  the  warm  flush  of  life. 
Sara  and  Paul  passed  between  them  and  up  the  steps 
of  the  old  house  into  the  great  hall  where  the  smiling 
Italian  servants  were  ready  to  greet  them,  and  where 
from  the  gallery  above  the  haughty  ladies  of  the 
house  of  Corleone  looked  down  upon  the  two,  and 
where  from  among  them  the  portrait  of  the  now  true 
owner  of  the  place  glowed  like  a  great  blue  sapphire. 

And  a  couple  of  hours  later  they  came  into  the 
dining-room,  where  shaded  lamps  filled  the  place 
with  a  soft  mellow  light,  and  shed  their  glow  on  the 
white  damask  cloth,  on  the  shining  glass  and  silver, 

313 


314  Aunt  Olive  in  Bohemia 

on  decanters  of  red  wine,  and  on  dishes  of  golden 
oranges.  Soft-footed  low-voiced  servants  waited 
on  them.  It  was  a  magic  scene,  over  which  the 
gods  of  Love  and  Joy  reigned  supreme. 

And  later  still,  the  moon  rose  in  the  night  sky, 
bathing  the  lake  in  silver,  touching  the  marble 
statues  to  unearthly  whiteness,  and  finding  its  way 
through  a  great  window  where  two  figures  stood  to- 
gether looking  at  its  light  upon  the  sleeping  lake. 
Behind  them  the  room  was  full  of  flickering  lights 
and  shadows  from  a  fire  of  fir-cones  burning  on  the 
hearth. 

And  at  last  Sara  turned  from  the  strange  beauty 
of  the  scene,  and  saw  Paul's  eyes  upon  her. 

"  Are  you  —  content  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Beloved  of  my  heart,"  he  said,  and  his  arms 
closed  round  her. 

And  so  the  Music  of  the  Heart  again  filled  the 
room,  playing  in  glorious  and  most  perfect  harmony 
for  the  two  whom  the  Gods  had  blessed. 

And  far  away  in  England,  in  a  studio  in  another 
courtyard,  Aunt  Olive  was  putting  a  question  to 
Barnabas,  while  Pippa  was  lying  asleep  in  the 
inner  room. 

"  Now  that  Paul  and  Sara  will  have  reached  the 
Casa  di  Corleone,"  she  said,  "  and  Alan  and  Aurora 
are  cooing  together,  and  Jasper  and  Bridget  have 
found  happiness,  I  wonder  what  is  going  to  become 
of  you  and  Dan  and  Michael." 


The  Music  of  Two  Courtyards       315 

"  You  want  to  wind  us  up  tidily,  too,"  said 
Barnabas,  smiling. 

"I  was  just  wondering,"  she  said. 

"  Well,"  said  Barnabas,  "  Michael  has  his  music 
and  his  drawing,  and,  at  last,  an  ideal  which  will 
be  his  throughout  his  life.  Dan  will  always  be 
what  he  is  now  —  big,  silent,  making  harmless  love 
to  all  women  (he  has  been  flirting  disgracefully 
with  Bridget,  and  Jasper  has  been  quite  refreshingly 
jealous),  and  always  he  will  be  a  staunch  friend 
of  those  who  need  him.  And  I,  for  the  next  few 
years,  will  turn  my  whole  attention  to  your  candi- 
dates for  the  School  of  a  Wonderful  Chance,  and 
later "  he  stopped. 

"And  later?"  asked  Aunt  Olive. 

"  And  later,"  said  Barnabas,  "  I  hope  to  ask  you 
for  Pippa." 

And  through  the  half-open  window  the  little 
faun  heard  the  words.  And  under  the  stars  he 
piped  a  tune  of  the  fairy-tale  of  life,  a  tune  of  love 
and  laughter,  whose  notes  reached  the  soul  of  the 
sculptor  who  had  fashioned  him,  and  hearing  the 
music  he  was  glad. 


THE   END 


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